


Star Stuff

by justaluckybug



Series: au where everyone finally gets what they want [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - You've Got Mail Fusion, Astrology, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infidelity, M/M, Magical Realism, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Online Romance, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Soulmates, steve and robin are bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaluckybug/pseuds/justaluckybug
Summary: “Yes,” says Robin seriously. “Your love life is a 90s rom-com train wreck because You’ve Got Mail is my girlfriend’s favorite movie, and I’m God.”“I knew it,” says Steve.Steve’s falling in love with an anonymous astrology account, which would be the worst of his problems, if it weren’t for his girlfriend, who’s probably (definitely) cheating on him; his useless best friend, who is Not Helping; and Billy Hargrove, who hasn’t done anything wrong, specifically, but whose stupid hair and stupid face make everything gross and terrible all the time.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway, Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler
Series: au where everyone finally gets what they want [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719265
Comments: 203
Kudos: 612
Collections: Essential Harringrove





	1. Prologue – Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so excited to finally be sharing this! I wrote this fic for the 2019 Harringrove Bigbang but I’m not sure what happened to that, I think maybe it fell by the wayside. But! I wanted to share this anyway, so I’ve decided to just post it. 
> 
> I said that songbird was the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written, but I didn’t even Know what self-indulgent was before this fic. I pretty much threw together some of my favorite things – You’ve Got Mail (greatest movie of all time), astrology, soulmate AUs, unrequited love, enemies to lovers, mistaken identities. It’s all here, folks! There are some rocky moments but overall this fic is just a really fun time, and I hope you’ll stick around to see it to the end! Also, it’s complete! I plan on posting a chapter a week. 
> 
> There are a lot of You’ve Got Mail references, but you’ll definitely be able to understand this fic if you haven’t seen it. That said, it really is the greatest movie of all time, so if you’ve got two hours to spare, I highly recommend it. 
> 
> A few disclaimers – I’ve never been to Indiana University, and I really did the bare minimum of research on it, so please, take everything I say about their campus with a grain of salt. Also, they live in some magical AU world where every student has a single room because it made my life easier (theirs too, I bet). 
> 
> The rating is only for Ch. 9, which you can skip and still understand everything. 
> 
> Okay! Done rambling. I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

*-.*-.*-.

I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. You said _Tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light_ and I said _this is the Moon. This is the Sun. Let me name the stars for you._

_–_ Richard Siken, _Snow and Dirty Rain_

*-.*-.*-.

_Oh, my life / is changing every day / in every possible way / And oh, my dreams / it's never quite as it seems / never quite as it seems_

_“Dreams” – The Cranberries_

“No, you fucking didn’t!”

“I did!”

Robin’s shoulders shake so much, she spills half her drink down the front of her shirt, which just makes her laugh harder and throw her head back with a solid _thunk_ against the bathroom wall.

“I don’t believe you,” Steve barely gets out through his own breathless laugh.

Robin points a finger at him unsteadily with the hand that’s holding her cup. “Believe it, dingus—second grade field trip. Indianapolis Zoo. Koala exhibit. I loved those fluffy fuckers—and I almost got one too. It took four zookeepers to get me out of there, man, and—and—” She breaks off again, Steve’s choking laugh sending her into another fit. When they both can breathe again, she adds with a shuddering gasp, “It made _international papers_.”

“It _did_ not.”

“My dad has the article framed at home. He thought it was fucking hilarious.”

“Wow. Holy shit.” Steve slumps back against the side of the tub and stares into his own cup, watching the pink liquid spin and settle. “I’m stunned, dude. I’m—I’m impressed, honestly.” Then he remembers the whole reason they’re talking about this and sits back up, annoyed, “But, no way that fucking counts.”

Robin makes an indignant sort of snort. “Oh, it counts.”

“No fucking way, dude! That’s _dumb_ , okay, but not embarrassing. You could brag about that—you _should_ brag about that. It’s probably the most interesting thing about you.”

“Okay, first of all, there are plenty of interesting things about me, thanks, asshole. And second, yeah, it _was_ dumb, the absolute, most idiotic, shit-brained thing I ever did. That was your question—not most embarrassing, most _stupid_ —so,” she throws her hands out to the side in a flourish, the rest of her drink sloshing over her fingers. “That’s me. Robin Buckley, failed koala thief.”

“Ugh. Fuck off. That’s not the—the,” Steve’s brain is so fogged with all this pink shit, and Robin’s cheap weed. He closes his eyes against the dull throb in his head, leans his face into the cool tile wall.

“The what?” says Robin.

“The spirit,” Steve says, finally grasping it. “That’s not the fucking spirit of the game.”

“Better be more specific with your questions then, huh, dingus?”

Steve hums in something like agreement, and decides he actually doesn’t give a shit if the bathmat is covered in foot germs or whatever—he’s, he’s tired now. He sets his drink down clumsily and falls onto it, rubs his face into the plush, green thread.

“Gross, dude,” Robin laughs, and stretches her legs out to lay along his back. It’s grounding in a weird way. Steve blows all the air out of his lungs, like sinking to the bottom of a pool, lets the weight of Robin’s calves press him down, down, down into the floor.

It might be whole minutes later before Robin digs the heel of her filthy converse into his spine.

“Your turn,” she says.

“What,” says Steve, muzzy and half-asleep.

“ _Your turn,”_ she repeats, real slow. “What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?”

Steve snuffles against the mat and tries to think. There’s so many options. Jumping off the roof onto his trampoline and breaking his arm when he was nine. Trying to steal that cow once with Tommy. Going to the same college as half his fucking graduating class.

Steve presses his face into the damp mat until he can’t stand the smell of sweat anymore and rolls over, lets Robin put her legs back down on his chest.

“The stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” he echoes.

“Yeah,” says Robin.

Steve fingers itch for his phone, like they do now, always, like they have for months. He stares at the dull, buzzing light on the ceiling, the random, black dots—flies, probably—along the edges.

“What if I’m still doing it,” Steve asks. His head is so heavy, lying like this. He can feel the weight of his voice somehow in his throat.

“Still counts,” says Robin quietly, and it’s only that softness that makes him realize he was talking like that too, like a murmur under water.

Steve’s fingers itch. He feels heavy, but still, like an anchor. He stares at the light.

“I love someone,” he says.

“Nancy,” Robin fills in, still quiet.

“No,” says Steve, on instinct, and it’s only after it slips out that he thinks maybe he shouldn’t have. Cause—isn’t that right? Doesn’t he love Nancy? It’s just that, in the yellow light of this random bathroom, at whatever fucking time on a Thursday night, he forgot that he was supposed to.

Robin doesn’t even pause. “Who,” she says.

“That’s the stupid thing,” says Steve, and it is stupid. It’s so, so _stupid_ , it’s so shit-brained idiotic, it makes him laugh again, that shuddering way from before, his chest heaving under Robin’s legs.

“I don’t know,” he manages to gasp, but it just sets him off again. “I don’t even know.”

Robin laughs, too, but Steve thinks it’s probably just a sympathy thing, like a yawn. “What,” she says. “You don’t know who you love?”

“Nope,” Steve says, popping the p. “I’m in love with a _stranger_.”

And it’s so ridiculous, out loud like that, it’s so fucking, made-for-TV-Disney-movie crazy, that he laughs again, laughs and laughs, till tears are streaking down his temples into the mold-infested bathmat, and maybe he’s not laughing anymore, but it’s hard to tell.

“Steve,” says Robin softly, like it’s not so funny anymore.

“I don’t know,” he says again. His ears feel clogged, and his nose, too. Maybe he is under water.

“What do you mean?” says Robin, sad and serious, and he didn’t mean—he didn’t, he didn’t mean to make this sad or serious— _fuck_. He throws an arm over his face, hides his eyes in the crease of his elbow.

“It’s all this star shit,” he whines, knowing he’s just digging the hole even deeper, making less sense. This whole fucking thing has gotten so out of control and it’s—he lets his arm flop back down and glares at the ceiling.

“It’s all _Dustin’s_ fucking fault.”

*-.*-.*-.

“Come _on,_ now you _have_ to _._ ”

“Why, why do I—”

“You _have_ to,” Dustin cut him off, “Are you crazy? This is a sign!” He threw his arm out wildly at the dark sky, nearly falling backward with the force of it. Steve snagged Dustin’s shirt and pulled him back from the ledge, his heart snapping into overdrive, thinking that’s just what he needed, a trip to ER and trying to explain to Mrs. Henderson why Dustin had fallen off the roof at 1am. And he wasn’t even _drunk._

“Be _careful_ , dude,” Steve said, and then, “It’s not a fucking _sign,_ man, it was just an airplane or some shit.”

“It was a shooting star and you know it,” said Dustin, slumping back against the wall. Steve thought maybe that meant he’d give it a rest, but he wasn’t done, poking at Steve’s shoulder, “A shooting star, _just_ when I was telling you about star-stuff? Come _on._ That’s—that’s like _fate_.” He said _fate_ with his eyes all bugged out, like he really believed it.

He _couldn’t_ be drunk _,_ Steve didn’t think—he’d had _half_ a Mike’s Hard Lemonade (which Steve bought specifically so he’d stop asking for a beer—Steve was trying to be, like, a _good influence_ , or whatever it was Mrs. Henderson kept calling him). There was no way he was _drunk_ from that shit, but it didn’t seem to stop him from spouting nonsense, all this stuff about stars.

“There’s no such thing as _fate_ , man,” Steve said. “And there’s definitely no such thing as _psychics_.”

“It’s not a _psychic—_ it’s an _astrologer_.” Dustin frowned. “Or something. But whatever—it’s the _real deal,_ Steve! Seriously. They know stuff that, like, no one else could _possibly_ know.” 

“Like what?”

“Like,” Dustin picked at a hole in his jeans, frowning, then grinned wide when he remembered—“Like they knew Suzie and I were gonna meet!”

“Oh, yeah?” said Steve. “Did they say you were going to meet the love of your life at space camp?”

“No,” Dustin scoffed. “I didn’t even follow them then. I _know_ about them because of Suzie, remember? They told her that she was going to meet a Virgo sun, Cancer moon, who was funny and smart.” Dustin shrugged his shoulders, like, _see._ “That’s me!”

“ _Funny_?” said Steve, mostly to make Dustin roll his eyes, which he did, and then shoved at Steve’s chest.

“I’m funny!” he insisted, and then he twisted his face away and mumbled something else.

“What,” said Steve.

“And a dork!” Dustin nearly shouted back and huffed. “Okay? They said she would meet someone who was funny and smart and a _dork_ , but in, like, a _good_ way. And that I would only _act_ dumb because I was nervous, but I was _actually_ really nice, and good for her, and she should give me a chance. See? That’s _exactly_ what happened.”

“And, what, they knew that from _stars_?” said Steve, trying not to sound like a dick, but still, like, come _on_.

He didn’t mean for this to be a whole thing, or to take up so much of their last _hang-out_ before Steve went back to school tomorrow. He knew last year was rough for Dustin and he wanted to leave better this year, to _do_ better, at keeping up with him—so this was supposed to be a good night, and it _was,_ until Dustin brought up all this stupid astrology shit and tried to make Steve pay actual money for a _personal natal chart reading_ —whatever the fuck that was.

“You don’t believe me,” said Dustin, quiet and hurt, and like, _fuck_ , now Steve was going to have to pay _twenty-five_ fucking dollars for this shit. _Whatever—_ if it made Dustin stop _looking_ like that.

“Fine,” said Steve, “I’ll do it.”

Dustin lit up immediately. “Really?”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m not saying I believe in this shit, okay?” That was all Steve needed, for that to get around Hawkins. Steve’s reputation had dwindled to nothing by the end of senior year, but he’d rather be a boring no-name than some kind of new-age, astrology freak. “But it’ll be funny at least, right?”

“It’ll be _amazing_ ,” said Dustin. “Really. You don’t even _know._ Plus, you’re _nineteen_ now, Steve.”

“And?” Steve said, not getting the connection. Dustin rolled his eyes again.

“You’re _old._ This is, like, your _last_ year of youth _._ This year’s your _last_ chance to do all the dumb shit you can before you’re an _adult_.”

Steve didn’t think it worked like that, couldn’t image that he’d feel much more like an adult than he did right now, in just a year, but he smiled anyway and gave in. This was supposed to be a _good_ _night_.

“You’re so right, dude. Why the fuck shouldn’t I give my hard-earned money to some rando on the internet? Gotta live large.”

“Exactly,” said Dustin, not catching Steve’s tone.

“So, what’s the account again?” Steve opened Instagram and prayed this shit wouldn’t show up on his activity.

“Star-stuff,” said Dustin. “With a hyphen.”

“Star-stuff,” Steve echoed. Even the name was stupid. Whatever. He’d just unfollow it when he got back to school.

“Just wait,” said Dustin, the excitement in his voice enough to make Steve glad he was doing this, as dumb as it was. “It’s gonna blow your mind.”

“Sure, man,” said Steve, scrolling through old memes and horoscope posts as Dustin rattled off more _totally impossible moments_ star-stuff had predicted.

He clicked on a random post –

 _just leo being leo,_ it said above a photo of some dude sitting in the middle of the ocean with a beer.

“What does this mean,” said Steve, shoving the phone under Dustin’s face.

Dustin squinted at the screen for a few seconds before shrugging. “I guess you’d get it if you were a Leo,” he said.

“I am a Leo,” said Steve. It was the one thing about astrology he knew, and only because, in 7th grade, Becky Krasinski made him take some Buzzfeed quiz, told him they had _incompatible ways of communicating,_ and broke up with him two days before the winter ball. His only interaction with astrology—which, like, figures. 

“Oh,” said Dustin, pulling Steve’s phone closer again. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, “That is you.”

Steve looked again at the photo, the sort of defeated way the guy was staring at the horizon, the bizarre _drama_ of the whole thing.

“That’s not me,” he said, more to himself than anything. Dustin just hummed.

“That’s why you’ve gotta get your chart done,” said Dustin, and this really was going to be a whole _thing_ now, wasn’t it? “Sometimes different planets, like, matter more.”

“Great,” said Steve, clicking back through more incomprehensible memes.

“You just have to DM them,” Dustin went on. “They’ll make you pay through PayPal first, but it’s totally worth it, Steve, really.”

Steve stared up at the wide summer sky and wondered if there was a limit to the embarrassing, expensive nonsense that he’d do for this kid.

“If you say so,” he said.

Above them, another star seemed to burn, hot and bright, and shoot away, but it was probably just a plane.

*-.*-.*-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably post the first chapter before a week, just since this part is so short. Let me know what you think!


	2. comethru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, wow,” says Robin, thrilled. “You’re, like, an actual astrology hoe. This is incredible. This is the greatest thing to happen to me in weeks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just fyi, I decided to make Scoops Ahoy an ice cream shop in their college town rather than in a mall because of, you know, aesthetic. Steve needs swirls of snow to stare at while he has multiple identity crises.

_Now I'm shaking, drinking all this coffee / These last few weeks have been exhausting / I'm lost in my imagination / and there's one thing that I need from you / Can you come through?_

_“comethru” – Jeremy Zucker_

“Good _morning,_ hot stuff,” is all the warning Steve gets before the loudest _clang_ in history, something heavy falling onto the table next to his head.

“Oh, god,” he groans into his arms. “Why?”

“Excellent question,” says Robin. “I have a few for you—number one: did you sleep here?”

Steve lifts his head as high as it’ll go and peers around the dining hall, which is mysteriously empty for a Friday morning. 

“Because I’m pretty sure I left you here at, like, three last night,” Robin goes on, “And it’s two in the afternoon, so….”

Which—explains that. Steve buries his head back in the sweatshirt he bundled up as a pillow. He’s pretty sure he did that after breakfast, when the hike back to his room felt excessively far, especially when there was a perfectly good table right here, to put his head down on, and just close his eyes for a second.

“None of your business,” says Steve into the fabric, wishing it would suffocate him. Robin’s so _loud_ and pretty much the last person Steve wants to see right now. He barely remembers last night but knows from the sinking knot in his stomach that is was likely embarrassing and terrible. 

“That’s no way to talk to your best friend, Steve,” she says, and then sits down to eat the biggest salad Steve has ever seen in his life. Robin, who eats gummy bears and Dr. Pepper for lunch, starts munching on a slice of cucumber. Robin, who he’s known for a few months through their shared shift at the ice cream place, is saying things like _best friend,_ to him.

All of this makes such little sense that there’s almost no other explanation except that Steve is dreaming.

“Are we—that?” he manages, lifting his head again to see if there’s a clock around. Isn’t that how you’re supposed to tell if you’re asleep? Something about time not working right—

Robin bites through a large carrot, the _snap_ of it making Steve wince. She nods and says gravely, with her mouth full, “We are. I’ve decided you are now _officially_ interesting enough for me to care about, beyond work.”

“Okay,” says Steve, flopping his head back down in defeat. If this is what he’s dreaming about now, it’s still better than the usual, even if he didn’t think it was possible to get a migraine in a dream.

“You don’t want to know what bumped you to the next level?”

“No,” says Steve.

“Well,” says Robin, “Your anonymous, astrological love affair helped.”

Steve’s head snaps up before he can think about whether his neck still has the ability to move that way, the word _affair_ setting off _Kill Bill_ sirens in his head. Because that’s—that’s not even what it _is_ —he’s not having an _affair,_ it’s just _chatting_ —he doesn’t even know _who_ it is, which means he can’t possibly be _cheating—_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

Robin’s grin is unbearable to look at, this early in the day. She’s got broccoli stuck in her teeth.

“Oh, Steve,” she says, mockingly. “Steve, Steve, Steven. You can’t take this back, my friend, the box has been opened. This is one doodle that can't be un-did, homeskillet.”

Steve tries to glare but it probably ends up more like a squint. “Don’t quote _Juno_ at me,” he says. “That doesn’t even, like, apply to this.”

“See,” says Robin, chomping on another carrot and pointing the end at him. “This is why we’re gonna be friends.”

“I thought we _were_ friends,” Steve mutters, too tired to care if that’s embarrassing—it’s true. He hasn’t known her long, but he _likes_ Robin. She’s smart and wears cool jackets and makes fun of him pretty much constantly. That’s, like, a trifecta, for Steve. He’d probably have a crush on her if she wasn’t so open about her _complete homosexual disinterest in men_.

“Oh, Steve,” says Robin. “That is so cute and sad.”

“Okay,” says Steve again, this time with feeling. He unravels his sweatshirt and pulls it on, keeping the hood up to block whatever light he can. “Not that this hasn’t been a really nice moment, for us, but I need to go sleep for six thousand years.”

“Hold up,” says Robin, shoving something into his face. It’s warm and smells chocolatey, and even without his contacts—which he hopes are back in his room and not on the floor of some random frat house—he can recognize the green, smudgy circle for what it is.

“Have you had this the whole time? Is it mocha,” Steve asks, already trying to tug the coffee out of Robin’s grip.

Her fingers stay stubbornly tight around it. “Soy mocha latte,” she says with a stupid grin. “Three shots. Just what your poor, little, caffeine-addicted heart needs.” Steve tugs at it again, but Robin doesn’t budge. “But you’re gonna stay here while you finish it,” she goes on firmly. “And you’re gonna start at the beginning of this little Indie rom-com plot you’ve been living, not just because it’s the most hilarious thing I’ve heard all year, but also,” she catches Steve’s gaze with a weirdly serious look, “I think you could use my help. Okay?”

Steve stares at the drink, then at Robin, then back down at the drink, at their hands still awkwardly overlapping around it. He doesn’t _want_ to talk about this.

He wants to sleep and be somewhere not here, with all these awful fluorescent lights and Robin’s knowing look. He wants to check his phone, wants to read whatever messages he’s missed since this morning, and if there aren’t any (there will be), he wants to read the old ones, over and over, like always.

But he also wants the coffee, and—staring at Robin’s chipped blue nails next to his own bitten ones—he can admit that maybe he wants someone _else_ to read the messages, too. To look through weeks of conversations and say _you’re shitbrained crazy, you idiot, it’s nothing,_ or maybe, _you’re right, it’s just as big as you thought, this thing you have here._

“Okay,” says Steve. Robin slips her hands out from under his and lets him tug the coffee away. He takes a long sip and then presses the side of the cup against his face.

“Okay,” Robin echoes. “So. The beginning?”

The beginning was in August.

Steve was about to start his sophomore year at Indiana University—a year notorious for some kind of _slump._ Dustin was worried about this, and was also brainwashed by a girl he’d met and fallen in love with over the summer, so he was convinced that the key to second-year success was getting Steve’s fortune told by an astrology meme account. 

“Your _fortune_?” says Robin.

“Okay, not _fortune_ ,” says Steve.

_Star chart,_ or _natal chart,_ or _something_ —which you could get for free online but that meant nothing, really—according to Dustin—unless you had an expert to decipher it and tell you about your life, your personality, your future.

So, Steve, because he loves Dustin and tries to encourage his interests, no matter how stupid and terrible and expensive they are—

“How much did you pay for it?” says Robin.

“Not relevant,” says Steve.

—did what any good big brother stand-in would do—

“Aw,” says Robin

—he DM-ed the account, paid the fee, and got his full natal chart created and read.

“That’s fun,” says Robin. “What are you?”

“A Leo,” says Steve. At Robin’s flat look, he explains, “A Leo sun, Taurus moon, Libra rising.”

“And you know what all that means?”

Steve presses his forehead to the warm lid of his coffee. “I wish I could tell you I didn’t.”

He can’t see Robin’s grin, like this, but he can _hear_ it. “But you _do_ ,” she says.

Steve sighs. “I do.”

It means a lot of things.

Things like, Steve is indecisive, naturally competitive, and likes sports. He’s generous and sentimental, romantic but cautious, and needs emotional support in pretty much everything he does.

“Not to, like, imply you wasted your money,” says Robin, “but _I_ could’ve told you all that, and we _just_ became friends today.”

“We were friends before,” says Steve. “You just don’t think so because you’re a Capricorn.” He says it as a joke, mostly, but with a little too much confidence.

“Oh, _wow_ ,” says Robin, thrilled. “You’re, like, an _actual_ astrology hoe. This is incredible. This is the greatest thing to happen to me in weeks.”

“I think that says more about _your_ life than it does about me.”

“Oh, no, dude,” says Robin. “It _really_ says a lot about you.”

Steve knows this. He hates everything about this new part of his personality, and he can’t stress enough how much learning all this was against his will.

“But I don’t get it,” says Robin. “How did you go from some kind of sketchy Instagram deal to falling in love with this person?”

“You _said_ start at the beginning—I’m getting there.”

“Well, get there _faster_. I know how you drink those things,” Robin points at the mocha he’s draining. “And I need you to get to the good part before you bolt.” 

“I’m not gonna _bolt.”_

“Said the _Libra rising_.”

“You don’t even—”

“Finish the story, Steve!”

It’s a _long_ story, okay? There’s just _a lot_.

A lot happened between that night on the roof with Dustin, following the account and getting his chart read—and _now._ And _this._ This _thing_ that’s just—taken over his life, _ruined_ his relationship, and literally made him question, like, _everything_ about what’s real and what’s _impossible_ and—

“Okay,” says Robin, reaching to press her fingertips to his hand—which is shaking, Steve realizes. Robin goes on, “You just downed an unhealthy amount of caffeine in, like, five minutes so. Just. Take a deep breath, dude.”

Steve takes a deep breath and wishes he had more sleep to handle this conversation, which he realizes now was always going to be bigger than _one_ conversation. It’s a funny thing on the surface—Steve’s in love with a meme account. Steve gets daily horoscopes and knows what the _astrological_ _houses_ are. It’s _funny_.

But there’s so much more, that, even drunk, he probably didn’t tell Robin. Things like who he thinks the account might be, like what they might be able to do, what they might be able to _see._

“It’s not a quick story, Robin,” he says, her name feeling foreign in his mouth. He’s probably said it only a handful of times—she’s right, a little—they’re not really friends.

“That’s okay,” says Robin, soft and sure, her fingertips still pressed to his skin. Steve knows she’s good about reading this kind of thing, the shift when heavier stuff starts to float too close to the surface. He wonders what her moon sign is and then hates himself, deeply, for it.

“I’ll still tell you,” says Steve, filled now with an urgent need for her to know, to _help_ him with this, like she said she would.

“You will,” she agrees. She taps the side of the now-empty Starbucks cup and adds, “You owe me. Plus, we’re best friends now, remember?” She grins and stands, swipes her tray up with a gracefulness Steve would never be capable of, even on a good day. She pats his head as she makes her way towards the exit and calls over her shoulder, “You can tell me the rest at dinner.”

And then she’s gone.

Steve stays just long enough to summon the emotional energy to stand and then he leaves, too, tugging his phone out as he starts towards his dorm. He opens the notifications tab, so the messages won’t mark as read, and scrolls through them.

**star-stuff [12:04 PM]**

the moon went into taurus last night man i told u - be careful with eye and vision shit

That’ll be about his contacts, Steve guesses. Must’ve taken them out when he was drunk again—which is just perfect. He’ll be stuck wearing glasses for days before he can order another pair. He keeps scrolling.

**star-stuff [12:06 PM]**

if u have to wear glasses for a week that’s on u dude u never listen smh

—which. Fair.

**star-stuff [12:39 PM]**

mercury heading into leo today

that’s good shit for u

**star-stuff [1:04 PM]**

*sent a photo*

**star-stuff [1:05 PM]**

mercury in leo = new friendships. but u gotta be open to it

Steve ignores the photo and reads the last message a few times, then shoves his phone into his coat pocket and sighs, watching his breath billow out in the frosted air.

He thinks about it all the way to his room—how he’ll ever be able to explain these past few months to Robin, what’s it been like, to have this tiny oracle in his pocket. This sarcastic know-it-all, who sees him down to his core, who despite all the name-calling and swearing and everything else, just wants Steve to be safe and happy, with all the stars on his side. When he thinks about it like that, it doesn’t seem so funny or strange, that he feels the way he does.

Steve’s phone buzzes just as he’s closing the door to his room.

**star-stuff [2:53 PM]**

don’t think too hard today. take a nap stevie

He swipes the message open finally, falls lazily onto his beanbag as he waits for Instagram to boot up.

He reads it again— _take a nap stevie_ —the words made better, realer, somehow, in the little, white bubble beside that stupid icon. _Stevie,_ he reads, over and over, feeling warm with it, before he types out a reply.

**kingg_stevee**

The stars want me to nap?

_star-stuff is typing_ appears instantly, and Steve sinks deeper into the bag, hiding his grin in the collar of his hoodie.

**star-stuff**

the stars are sleeping steve

If he laughs at that, alone in his room, it’s only because he’s tired. It’s not funny. He goes to type, _you’re not funny_ , but another message pops up before he can. 

**star-stuff**

i want you to nap

_This_ thing—the shiver that goes through him reading that, the _anticipation_ that fills him knowing that he’s _going to,_ that he’ll nap and feel better and make them _both_ happy because of it—that’s probably the one part of this he’ll never explain, not to Robin, not to anyone.

Steve changes into new sweats and crawls under his sheets before he replies.

**kingg_stevee**

Yeah, napping now

He’s just about to set his phone to charge when he remembers the image from earlier and scrolls back up to load it. It’s that meme from _Real Housewives_ , the one about bread and calming down, but half the text has been blacked out and replaced—

_Why don’t you **submit yourself to the mortifying ordeal of being known** and maybe you’ll **receive the rewards of being loved.**_

Steve snorts, and can’t resist sending something back.

**kingg_stevee**

Dank meme

**star-stuff**

jesus christ don’t say dank

**kingg_stevee**

You can’t tell me what to do

**star-stuff**

oh yeah? go to sleep steve

**kingg_stevee**

Yeah ok

*-.*-.*-.

“So, explain to me again why you haven’t just _asked_ them who they are? Like, their name or _anything_ personal? You’ve been, what, just talking about astrology for six months?”

“Not _just_ astrology,” says Steve, flipping his ice cream scooper lazily. Robin twists in her spot on the counter to look at him more fully. She really shouldn’t be up there, but on a Wednesday in February, business as Scoops Ahoy is pretty slow.

When Steve doesn’t answer right away, Robin sighs loudly and prods, “ _So_?”

“What?”

“What _else_ do you talk about?”

“I don’t know.” Steve focuses on the scooper, trying to get a second flip in without dropping it. He’s not _not_ looking at Robin, just—

He thought it would be easier to talk about, now that she knows the gist of this thing. But after the first night he doesn’t remember, the first lunch he does, then dinner, and another lunch and coffee and now—it’s, it’s still _hard._ He still hasn’t been able to psych himself up to admit all the little (and not so little) things about it that make his stomach clench and sink.

“You don’t know,” Robin repeats.

“It’s just—you know, classes, work, shit about my friends. Just _normal_ stuff.”

“Okay. But do you, like, _both_ talk about that stuff, or is it just you?”

When Steve doesn’t answer again, Robin kicks at his arm, enough to send the ice cream scooper scattering to the floor.

“Fuck you, dude,” says Steve as he stoops to pick it up.

“Uh, right back at ya, dingus. Look—do you want my help or not? Because, I know you don’t remember, but you seemed really fucked up about this, Steve. Like—super not coping.”

_Super not coping—_ yeah, story of Steve’s life.

“I know, okay?” he says, tossing the scooper into the sink to clean later. He leans back against the counter and stares out across the empty store, watches the bundled college kids trek along Main Street instead of looking at Robin. “It just—started like that. Like, that’s the whole point, right? If you’re paying someone to tell you about your life and your future, or whatever, you’re _obviously_ going to tell them about yourself. And they’re not expected to tell you anything back. It’s not a two-way conversation, it’s—it’s a transaction.”

When he finally dares to glance at Robin, her eyes are sad and sympathetic—like he fucking knew they would be. _This_ is why he hasn’t told anyone yet, wasn’t _ever_ going to tell anyone—because it’s _pathetic_.

“But it’s been six months, right,” Robin says softly, encouragingly. “They wouldn’t keep talking to you if it was just a transaction, Steve. You’re not still paying them, right?” she adds, suddenly, like she just thought of it.

“No, dude, of course not.”

“And you _just_ paid that one time?”

“For the chart, yeah.”

“Okay, so, exactly. It’s not a money thing. They like you.” She says it so simply, as if he didn’t know that already, as if it solves anything.

“I know,” says Steve.

“Okay,” says Robin. “So, _why_ don’t you just ask them for their name—for _something_.”

“I don’t think they _want_ me to know,” says Steve. If he stares at the swirls of snow out the window and doesn’t think too much, he can almost pretend he’s just talking to himself. “In the beginning, I used to ask questions about them, too, and their answers were so vague, and they’d always change the subject back to astrology shit. I just _got the_ _hint,_ you know? And, it’s not like I know _nothing._ ”

“Okay. So, you _do_ know stuff, then. Hit me with it.”

Steve fakes like he’s going to throw one of the tiny plastic taster spoons at her and she flips him off.

“Fucker,” she says, “ _Tell me_. I’m way smarter than you, dude. And I am an excellent internet stalker. Give me the deets, and I bet you I can figure this out.”

“Did you just say _deets_.”

“ _Steven_.”

“Okay.” And Steve doesn’t know why this part freaks him out so much, why his heart ticks into overdrive—except, like, he _does._ He stares at the snow, fiddles with the plastic spoon. Doesn’t look at Robin and says, “I think they’re our age or, like, near it. Just, the memes and shit, the way they talk. I know they’re a student, cause they complain about classes sometimes. I know they have a sister who’s a Sagittarius. I know their entire star chart—Aries sun, Scorpio moon, Scorpio rising. I know they hate the cold, they like Pepsi more than Coke. They miss warm weather—I think they moved, recently, I don’t know. And—”

He stops to take a breath and can’t really make himself go on. He has to say it. He _has_ to—it’s such a big part of the puzzle, but he just—can’t. He doesn’t know what he expects—that _Robin_ is going to give him shit about this? But it’s not something he thinks about, not something he’s ever said out loud. It figures that the first time he does, it’s at work, dressed like a fucking gay sailor.

Steve feels like he might puke, and he has a pretty shitty poker face, so he’s not surprised when Robin says, “What is it,” quiet and unsure.

He grips the edge of the counter, hard enough to feel the strain in his fingers, and says, “I think it’s a guy.”

“Okay,” says Robin, and it takes a beat for it to sink in, like she forgot Steve is supposed to be her _token straight friend_ , but she gets there eventually. “ _Oh,”_ she says.

“Yeah,” says Steve.

“And you—”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Well. That’s…”

“Yeah.”

“Steve.”

“Hmm?”

When he finally drags his gaze away from the front window, Robin’s left her perch on the counter, is standing next to him instead. She studies his face for a second and then wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her level. He hugs her back cautiously, a little surprised. Robin’s brand of affection is usually more violent, shoves and nudges, _bro stuff_.

“Thanks for telling me,” she says into his shoulder. As she pulls away, she adds, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, and he _is,_ even though it comes out kind of shaky. He feels like he just ran a marathon for some reason, shot through with adrenaline.

“If you want to talk about it, we can. Or, we don’t have to. It’s whatever you want. Okay?”

“It’s not a big deal,” says Steve.

Robin squeezes his hand—he hadn’t even realized she was holding it. “Okay,” she says. “If it’s not, then—okay. But if it is, that’s cool, too.”

He feels fine, really, but the more she looks at him like he’s gonna freak out, the more he feels like he might. It’s _not_ a big deal, it’s really not, because—

“It’s not like I _like_ guys now,” he says, quickly. He doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea, to think this is something they’re gonna _bond_ over or whatever. This doesn’t _change_ anything about him. “I mean, that’s not—I don’t—that’s not what it means.”

“Okay,” she says, in that same tone—so _patient_ it makes him want to scream.

“This is just, like, a weird _exception_ thing. Okay? I mean, it’s just _him_ — _them—_ see, and I don’t even know, I could be wrong, about the guy thing. It’s just, the way he _talks,_ like, the stuff he says, his _vibe_ —I don’t know.”

“Okay,” says Robin, and if she says that one more time, he might really lose it. “That’s totally cool.” She puts both her hands on his shoulders and grips tight, shakes him a little. It’s a familiar thing, like his coach used to do to get his head on straight before a game. The crazy thumping in his ears dulls a little.

Robin goes on, “If you want to be straight with an exception, or whatever it is—that’s your prerogative, dude. I’m not gonna, like, force an identity on you—and _no one_ _else_ can either. It’s something _you get to decide_.” She says each word firmly and stares at him all intense, like she’s making sure he gets it.

He nods, but she’s not done. She hesitates a bit before adding, “I just think the fact that I can see the whites entirely around your eyes, and _this,_ ” she says, taking one hand off his shoulder to still his fingers, where they’re shaking against his leg. “Kind of makes me think that it could be something else.” She digs her thumb into the muscle in his shoulder, hard, to bring his attention back, where it was shifting out the window again. “There’s no quota, you know. You can like one guy your whole life and still consider yourself bi or pan or queer or whatever. And you know all those things are okay, too, right?”

He really wishes he’d done this part later, because this is just around the time when he _would_ consider bolting, but they’ve got two more hours on shift, so he’s trapped.

He shrugs her off and paces towards the other wall and back, before hopping up on the counter. He’s not explaining this right, probably looks like an asshole or something. It’s not like—

“I don’t have a problem with gay people,” he blurts out, and then winces, because he knows that’s usually what people say when they mean the opposite. Robin stares at him blankly and he tries to recover, “I really don’t, I mean—people should just, love who they love, and be who they are, and that’s awesome. _I’m_ just not like that. I’m…” he trails off.

“Normal?” says Robin, jokingly, but Steve knows it’s not funny.

“ _No_. I didn’t—Robin, you _know_ that’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” she says and jumps on the counter across from him.

They sit there like that, for _ages—_ just, the longest minutes of his life. Steve focuses on the hum of the freezer and stares out the window again. It’s really starting to come down—he wonders if they’ll get a snow day this week.

“I know it’s terrifying,” says Robin, softly, maybe five minutes later. For once, _she’s_ the one not looking at him, staring at the ice cream instead. She goes on, “It makes you, just, _doubt_ everything you thought you knew, about yourself, or what your future’s gonna be like. Suddenly, you just wake up and you’re this _thing_ that people hate. And you didn’t even _do_ anything, but no matter where you go or what you do, there’s this little voice in your head, telling you to _be_ _careful_ , because you’re not _safe_ anymore, in all the places that you used to be.” She tucks her knees up to her chest, and Steve doesn’t know why he feels like he’s gonna fucking _cry_ all of a sudden, but Robin shouldn’t ever look like that.

“Robin—” he starts, but she scrubs a fist quickly across her eyes and cuts him off.

“I can’t help you get over nineteen years of internalized homophobia in a single day,” she says, loud and joking again. “But give me a few weeks and we’ll see what we can do.” When she looks up at him, her eyes aren’t red, just expectant. But the image of her all small like that isn’t going to leave him anytime soon.

“You don’t have to help me,” Steve says, but she just scoffs.

“Please. You need me. Now more than ever,” she says the last part like the voiceover in a movie trailer, and Steve laughs even though it’s dumb.

Just then, the bell above the door jingles, and a whole swarm of middle schoolers pour in, saving him from coming up with more to say.

“Hey, you got waffle cones?” says one kid, shoving past a girl with her face pressed right against the class.

“I was _first,_ Jamie!” she says and elbows him in the gut.

“Alright, guys,” says Steve, thankful for the distraction. He flips one of the scoopers a few times and smirks when the kids’ eyes widen. “What flavors are we thinking?”

*-.*-.*-.

After their shift ends and they’ve trudged to different sides of the parking lot with promises to meet up again soon, Steve huddles in his car, waits for the heater to kick in, and finally digs out his phone. It’s crazy, and maybe a little worrying, but after all these months, the same tangle of nerves still twists in his gut when he hasn’t checked it in a while.

He opens the notifications out of habit—it seems silly to care about it after all this time, but he likes the buffer of reading the messages before star-stuff _knows_ he has. He taps the Instagram bundle and watches all eight of them pop open, scrolls to read them in order.

**star-stuff [3:11 PM]**

*sent a photo*

**star-stuff [3:11 PM]**

u at work ^

**star-stuff [4:32 PM]**

that girl you work with is a capricorn right? dont worry if shit is weird today

**star-stuff [4:32 PM]**

mercurys in cancer rn its probs messing w her

**star-stuff [4:33 PM]**

ur already a cancer mercury so shit is off the chart

**star-stuff [4:33 PM]**

u just gotta ride it out babe

**star-stuff [5:02 PM]**

*sent a photo*

**star-stuff [5:02 PM]**

sorry to tell u the truth like this 

Steve barely has a chance to enjoy the jolt of pleasure he gets from _babe_ before he reads the last message and his heart drops into his stomach. He swipes over to the actual app with frozen fingers, no idea what to expect—there’s _no way_ star-stuff could know what him and Robin were talking about, not really, _right?_

The photo above the last message is a tweet:

**u believe in stars? fool. those are the holes poked in the container so we can breathe**

And it’s like whiplash—Steve barks out a laugh, half at the joke itself, but mostly in relief. He scrolls up to read through the messages one more time, wants the thrill of _babe_ to settle into his skin. He’s never gotten _babe_ before.

The first image, the one captioned _u at work,_ is a screengrab from _Home Alone 2_ , with the kid getting ice cream at the fancy hotel.

**Two scoops, sir?** says the waiter.

**Two? Make it three. I’m not driving,** says Kevin.

Steve snorts again, shakes his head as he types back.

**kingg_stevee [5:12]**

You’re such a loser. Thanks though. It was kind of weird with Robin

Like almost always, the _typing_ notification pops up instantly.

**star-stuff**

what happened

**kingg_stevee**

Nothing happened, just idk. Weird. Like I think I almost made her cry? Idk I think I wasn’t making a lot of sense

**star-stuff**

mercury done fucked u up

**kingg_stevee**

Lol yeah I guess so

**star-stuff**

you ok to drive?

The hair on Steve’s arms stands up and he gets an instant rush of adrenaline like he always does when star-stuff says something a little too perceptive. Why would he know Steve’s in his car, about to drive? Steve peers around as subtly as he can, not that he can see much out the darkened, snowy windows. He double checks that the doors are locked, that no one’s in the backseat.

He knows it’s crazy, but sometimes the thought hits him, one of his wilder theories—that maybe the reason star-stuff knows so much about Steve has less to do with astrology, and more to do with the fact that he’s an _actual stalker_. Steve’s always been able to rationalize it away, though, and he does this time, too. 

Because, of course star-stuff knows Steve’s about to drive somewhere. He knows Steve’s work schedule after all these months and knows Steve drives there from offhand comments he’s made.

Steve takes a deep breath and tries to calm his racing heart before he replies.

**kingg_stevee**

Yeah I’m ok. Thanks for checking

**star-stuff**

ofc dude gotta look out for my number one fan 

**kingg_stevee**

Sounds like a stretch

**star-stuff**

sounds like ur mom

**kingg_stevee**

Fuck off

Gotta go, driving now

**star-stuff**

let me know when you’re home

Steve thinks about that the whole drive back to his dorm, _babe_ and _let me know when you’re home_. Not for the first time, he tries to imagine a voice to go along with it. But even without that, the words are enough to settle something in him—just knowing that, somewhere in the world, there’s someone waiting for him to get home, to be warm again and safe.

*-.*-.*-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I consciously make Billy's main signs spell out A.S.S.? ... who's to say
> 
> Let me know what you think! The next chapter is from Billy's POV, so stay tuned.


	3. Break My Heart Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s shit like this that reminds Billy how fucking idiotic it is—like, certifiably, get-arrested-for-stalking crazy—and also how useless, that he came here, to bum-fuck Indiana, for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ready for yearning?

_You tear me up and wreck my dreams / I hold your hand when I'm asleep / I don't mind falling for a lifetime / ‘cause you break my heart right_

_“Break My Heart Right” – James Bay_

Friday night is a bad one. Not in the usual way, with screaming or blood or bone-deep terror that stays with Billy for days—but bad all the same. Maybe a seven on the _Fucked-Up If True_ scale.

In the dream, he’s Steve, and it’s simple as breathing to settle into him, to savor the deep, spirally purple of Steve’s emotions and thoughts and _essence._ It’s like sinking into a hot bath, or the first warm day in spring, like being away for _months_ and coming home. 

The hum of him is soft, slow and foggy, which means Steve’s been drinking or smoking Robin’s shitty weed. It makes it harder for Billy to See, but he can tell he’s somewhere warm and clean and pink. Steve’s thoughts are scattered, which isn’t unusual, but the extra haze means Billy only catches a few snapshots here and there—

_Uma Thurman——popcorn mail funny Robin— margaritas? —clean warm soft nice—star – boy – soft nice good_

It’s like a drug, when Steve is like this. Billy is helpless to it, drinks him in as much as he can. He’d give anything to bottle Steve’s honey-sweet joy and take it with him somehow when he wakes.

It’s so nice, he gets lost for a while, distracted. He doesn’t think about anchors or boundaries, doesn’t bother to root himself or put up any walls, because it’s just _Steve,_ and Steve is happy with Robin somewhere—he’s _safe_ , which means Billy is too.

So, he forgets. He forgets in the bright dazzle of _Robinfunnyfriendsnicesoftgood_ that Steve’s happiness isn’t solid or lasting, most of the time. It doesn’t take much to knock him off course, and the shift of his mood isn’t always subtle. Sometimes it is—sometimes he drifts lower and lower over hours, curled up in bed listening to awful, sad-girl pop until he’s shuddering with silent, heavy sobs. Those nights are bad for Billy, too.

But it’s worse like this. One moment Steve is shimmery light, indigo shot with gold, his thoughts curling over each other in big, slow loops—

_clean sweet warm— Robin—— bookstore — funny nice — Febreze? — — —_

And then there’s a tremor, like ripples through calm water, and that’s the only warning Billy gets before—

_– — — — HATES ME hatesmehatesmehatesme no no NO no pleaseno mine — –— love? ——pleaseneedplease hatesme —star boy —— boy Boy boy Gay –—gay ––— don’t no don’t –— stopscaredplease please HATES ME needneedneed nevergood please hurts empty never find——TOOFARPLEASE NEVERFIND TOOMUCHLONELY PLEASE——_

Billy wakes up gasping, his heart beating so wild in his chest, he thinks it must be fatal, that any second it’ll run itself out and stop for good. He wrenches up his shirt to press his palm to his chest, like that’ll help, like he can slow his heart down by holding it still. His breathing doesn’t slow, if anything, it gets worse, his mind still caught in the dream, in Steve’s violent, swirling panic. His ears ring with it. His blood is so loud.

He scrambles for the book under his pillow, uses his teeth to rip the pen cap off, needing to get it _down down down_ so he won’t forget—

**_2.8.20_ **

**_S.H. – panic attack – R’s room? – drunk – TONIGHT. Scared – LONELY – FIX THIS!!_ **

Billy tosses the book aside and then screams into his pillow until his throat clenches and his voice gives out. It doesn’t help. The ache of _scaredlonelypleasehatesme_ doesn’t fade like it should.

It’s so much harder here.

It was easier, back home. Even with the terrible, horrible, level-ten dreams, it was easy to roll over and look at the morning sun slanting through the blinds, at the Easter blue sky beyond that, to feel Jinx warm against him or hear Max bumping into shit in the next room—to remind him that he was William Conall Hargrove _,_ in his room in his home at 4423 25th Street, San Francisco, California. He was safe, he was himself, he was awake—and most important, there was nothing he could do.

There was nothing that he—Billy Hargrove in San Francisco, California—could do to help Steven James Harrington, in Hawkins, Indiana. They were 2,250 miles apart. He didn’t know Steve’s number or his email or his address. They were strangers.

So, even when Steve had a broken arm, or a broken heart, or a fever, or a test the next day he wouldn’t study for, there was nothing Billy could do. Knowing that made every ache and echo of pain dim, slowly, until it was gone.

But here, now, at IU, with Steve just ten feet away in the room right above Billy’s—it’s nearly impossible to keep himself from launching out of bed and up the stairs. It would take two minutes to reach Steve’s room, two minutes to pick the lock—in under five minutes he could be holding Steve in his arms the way Steve needs, has _always_ needed—the way Billy has imagined every day since he was nine years old.

But it’s just as impossible now as it always has been. Even though they’re closer in space, that’s really all that’s changed. They’re strangers still. And more than that—Steve hates him. 

The pang of that thought hits him _hard_ , adds to the rolling mass of _hatesmehatesmehatesme_ that’s already pulsing behind Billy’s eyelids, blurring the faint line between what’s _Billy_ and what’s _Steve._

He tries to ride it out for a while, but it doesn’t fade. When the tears finally spill over and start trailing down his temples into his pillow, he reaches blindly for his phone. With one eye just cracked open, he’s able to find the right contact and hit _call._

It takes six rings for it to pick-up.

“You ever heard of time zones, asshole,” Max answers. “It’s five o’clock in the fucking morning. On a _Saturday_. Legally, I can kill you for this.”

“Sorry,” Billy croaks, his voice all fucked up from screaming. It does the trick, though. Max’s tone shifts immediately.

“Billy,” she says, cautious, and then, “How bad?”

“Don’t know.”

“ _Billy._ ”

“Seven,” he says. He thinks that’s fair. The ache in his chest could swallow him whole, and he might need to stay in bed for a few hours, but he knows where he is and he doesn’t want to kill himself, so—that’s something.

“Shit,” says Max. “You know who you are?”

“Mhm,” Billy manages, not very convincing. Max must not think so either.

“You’re Billy Hargrove,” she says. “You’re twenty years old. You were born April 3, 1999 in San Francisco, California. You have shitty taste in music, and your favorite movie is _Ella Enchanted_ because you’re a hopeless loser. You’re allergic to kiwis and haircuts. You go to Indiana University—that’s where you are now. You’re my brother. I’m Max—are you good?”

“Yeah,” says Billy. Max’s voice grounds him more than the facts, but that always helps, too.

“Okay,” says Max. “Who was it?” she adds softly, unsure.

For years, Billy never told her anything about his dreams. He still doesn’t want her to know the really bad stuff, and even with smaller things, it feels—wrong, sometimes. The things he sees are private, meant for no one to see or know—not even him.

But the older Max gets, the more curious she is, and the less Billy’s reasoning and threats seem to matter. So, Billy’s taken to giving her the bare minimum, just enough to satisfy her without making him feel gross with cosmic betrayal.

“Steve,” says Billy, which is sometimes enough. Max already knows about Steve.

“He okay?” she prods, which is fair—seven’s pretty high on the scale. The twinge of worry in her voice makes Billy answer.

“Just—sad,” he says, though that’s more than an understatement.

Max hums and then they’re both quiet for a while. Billy listens to her breathe, wishing he could hear everything else at home, the birds in the tree outside, the creak of the old pipes.

And he’s so _homesick_ suddenly, it clogs his throat—but it’s _good—_ something that’s _his._ He clings to it, tries to make it sink in and grow. He thinks of his garden and his cat, Max’s rumpled glares in the morning and Susan’s runny eggs.

“How’s Susan,” says Billy, so Max will keep talking and not beg off to sleep. He knows it’s early, that it’s not really fair, but he feels untethered still, like he might just slip away.

“She’s learning to _quilt_ ,” says Max. “It’s awful. She’s been using your room to store all the fabric. I’ll send you a photo later—you’ll lose it. And there’s fluff _everywhere_. Jinx keeps trying to eat it.”

“How is my fat bastard,” says Billy. New tears prick at his eyes. He lets them form and spill over—he misses his _fucking_ cat so _fucking_ much, _fuck_.

“Still fat,” says Max. “More bastard than ever. He got his dumb fur all over my jean jacket, you know the pink one? It won’t come off. So, we’re not really speaking right now.”

“Don’t leave your fucking clothes on the ground and maybe he won’t sit on them.”

“What are you, his lawyer?” says Max. “I left it on _my bed,_ and he came into _my room_ just to sit on it. That’s trespassing – that’s two years minimum.”

“He’s just trying to love you the only way he knows how. It’s not his fault he can’t speak, you _know_ he got cursed by a sea witch.”

Max laughs at that, but quiets sooner than usual.

“He misses you,” she says softly, and Billy has to fight a new lump in his throat.

He coughs through it and says, “No, he doesn’t. I’m the only one who gives him those catnip treats, he just needs his fix.”

“He sleeps on your pillow,” Max insists, “He disappears all the time and I always find him under your bed.”

“He always did that,” says Billy, unable to keep himself from adding, “Can you send pics?”

“Yeah,” says Max. “When are you coming home?”

“I’ll be back for spring break. March 15th.”

“Okay,” says Max, sullen, and something about her silence then feels loaded. Billy’s not surprised when a moment later she bursts out with, “I can’t believe you went all the way to stupid _Indiana_ for this guy and you’re not even _friends_ yet. Why don’t you just talk to him?”

“I don’t know,” Billy mumbles, too tired to lie and hurting still, from the dream, from missing California and Max and Susan and Jinx—and Steve, which shouldn’t even be possible, but is. It’s always been possible.

And Max is right—it _is_ stupid, that they aren’t friends. He doesn’t have an excuse, except for that every time he’s tried to talk to Steve since that first day freshman year, he’s been met with glares and stony silence and, once, a hard shoulder checked against his own.

There just aren’t any words for the pain Billy felt at seeing Steve that first time, in his straight boy jeans and frumpy sweater, thinking _you’re real, you’re here, I’ve loved you all my life_ —only for Steve to look at Billy, just _once_ , and decide that he wasn’t worth knowing.

Billy’s tried to get Steve to like him, to even _notice_ him, for over a year now, and nothing seems to work. Well—almost nothing. His stupid Instagram account seems to have worked, but that’s its own fucking problem. He’s _not_ about to tell Max about that, and definitely not so early in the morning.

“Go back to sleep, Max,” he says. “Thanks for—you know. I’ll see you soon, okay? Send me photos of my boy.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Max. “Bye.”

Billy clutches his phone to his chest for a while, hoping she’ll send a photo of Jinx before she goes back to bed, but no luck. There’s no way _he’s_ getting back to sleep, with the shaky, panicked feeling still rattling inside him.

He closes his eyes instead and pictures Steve in the room above him. He’s probably still sleeping—it’s a miracle if he gets up before ten. His bed is flush against the same wall as Billy’s. He’ll be curled up tight like a pillbug, the way he’s slept since he was eight, so Billy curls up, too, and presses his face into his pillow. Even though he knows it does nothing—that he may be psychic, but he’s not _a telepath_ —he thinks as hard as he can:

_No one hates you. You are so loved. I’m here. I’ll never leave you. You are so loved._

He lies there and thinks like that for over an hour, until it’s late enough to message Steve and not seem desperate.

**star-stuff**

morning sunshine. big plans today?

An hour later, he’s eating Lucky Charms out of the box he keeps under his bed when his phone finally buzzes with a response.

**kingg_stevee [10:43]**

Hey, not much. Lunch with Robin, stuff later with Nancy

What’s my fortune today, pocket genie?

Billy grins despite himself, and tries to stamp down on the urge to fix this now, to say, _you’re not alone, sweetheart, not ever, how could you think that?_ He hasn’t totally lost it, though—so he does a quick search of the planets today and tries to find something that’ll serve as a subtler kind of warning, something believable:

**star-stuff**

genies dont tell fortunes dumbass

moons in pisces, so emotions r out of whack. big selfcare day. do a face mask stevie

**kingg_stevee**

Haha yeah okay, I’ll get right on that

**star-stuff**

i mean it tho dude

gotta take it easy

**kingg_stevee**

I will, promise

Billy chews on his lips for a minute, trying to decide if that’s enough. Steve keeps his promises to star-stuff, usually, but the echo of Steve’s panic sits under Billy’s skin still, shuddering awake every few minutes, a constant reminder to _fix this, fix this, fix this_. He can’t take it. Maybe it’s weird and stalkerish and desperate, but he _can_ do more, technically, so he fucking will.

**star-stuff**

actually there’s bigger stuff in ur chart this week. dm me after lunch? i'll tell u about it

It takes Steve a while to respond, the _typing_ notification showing up and disappearing over and over. After four whole minutes, he finally writes,

**kingg_stevee**

Sounds like a plan, man :)

**star-stuff**

r u rhyming now

**kingg_stevee**

You like it :) :)

**star-stuff**

i hate it and u

**kingg_stevee**

:) :) :)

Billy stares at Steve’s smileys for as long as he can stand. Then he has to stuff his phone under his pillow and shove his face into it, groaning, so he doesn’t do something stupid _,_ like write back:

_I love you, I love you, I love you_

*-.*-.*-.

When Billy shows up at the reference desk for his shift, Heather’s already there, spinning slow circles in her chair and tapping away at her phone.

“Texting on the job, Holloway?” Billy says as he falls into his own chair, letting it turn once, twice, before he skids his boots on the floor to stop it. By the time he’s logged into the computer and stashed his stuff under the desk, Heather’s phone’s away and she’s grinning at him, expectant.

“ _So_?” she asks, “Did you watch?”

Billy rolls his eyes. He wishes they could get a _little_ further into their shift before he has to get into this shit with her. It’s _every_ fucking week.

“It’s not gonna last,” he says. Heather’s rolling her eyes before he’s even finished, saying,

“Shut your bitch mouth. You are just, like, the _least_ romantic person ever, and just because you can’t see how _perfect_ they are for each other—”

“What fucking show are you watching? He’s not even _close_ to good enough for her—”

“That’s the _point_! She’s, like, sick of being pampered and treated like she can’t do anything. She _needs_ someone who’s not going treat her like _glass—_

_“_ Oh, _sorry_ , I didn’t know it was _projecting onto fictional characters_ hours—”

“Um—sorry—”

They both look up at the interruption to find what must be a freshman, looking meek and slightly afraid on the other side of the desk.

“What,” says Billy, pissed off already from Heather’s fucking _analysis,_ and also the lingering tingle of nerves still pulsing under his skin in hot waves.

“Oh, um. I didn’t mean to bother you—I just couldn’t find something—”

“That’s what we’re here for!” Heather interrupts brightly, her smile somehow warm and genuine, despite the honest vitriol in her voice a minute ago.

“Okay,” says the freshman. “I was looking for this anthropology book?”

Billy leaves Heather to sort out the problem and uses the interruption to check Instagram. There are a few DM’s from earlier in the week that he still hasn’t opened, which is almost getting, like, _bad for business,_ or whatever. It’s just hard to focus on charts or trying to channel other dreams, when Steve’s been having such a rough week. It’s hard to pretend he gives a single fuck about whether _Abbey_is_Fab_ from Arkansas should shoot her shot with her hot coworker, when he knows Steve’s panic attack is still looming—maybe—just a few hours away.

He pulls up his chat with Steve instead. There’s nothing new in the twenty minutes since he last checked, but Steve’s profile picture is rimmed with green, so Billy opens the story. It’s a photo of Robin, with two grapes over her eyes, held there by her bunched-up cheeks.

The caption across it reads, **_alien spotted._**

Billy snorts softly and almost, _almost,_ goes to show Heather, who’s just finishing with the freshman, waving him off towards the social sciences section. Billy remembers at the last second, though, that as far as Heather is concerned, he only knows Robin, vaguely, from intermittent GSA meetings, and he doesn’t know Steve at all. The small flicker of humor fades, replaced by the familiar aching mess of _angrybitterlonely_ that’s lived in his chest since orientation, since Steve’s first blank look and the months and months of his quiet contempt.

Billy opens the chat again, stares at their last conversation before Steve left for lunch—

**kingg_stevee**

You’d tell me if there was something fishy with the burritos at my dining hall, right?

**star-stuff**

and the stars would know that bc ?

**kingg_stevee**

I don’t pretend to know the stars, man

that’s your area

**star-stuff**

u can have a burrito steve

**kingg_stevee**

Sick

Billy remembers how _close_ he was to reminding Steve that it was grilled cheese day at Lincoln—his favorite—and he should go there instead. But there’s no conceivable reason for star-stuff to know something like that, just like there’s no conceivable reason for Billy to have access to Steve's _close friends_ story _,_ not enough to show Heather the funny shot of her girlfriend.

It’s shit like this that reminds him how fucking _idiotic_ it is—like, certifiably, get-arrested-for-stalking _crazy_ —and also how _useless_ , that he came here, to bum-fuck Indiana, for _this_. He’s been living within fifty yards of Steve for a year and a half now, and he’s no closer to being able to tell him everything he wants to tell him than he was when he was two thousand miles away.

_Everything_ is worse here—even the stuff that never used to bother him, like having to hide this _thing_ he has, his Sight or whatever _._ He’s never really had friends he wanted to tell before. He _still_ doesn’t. It’s just that, between his shifts with Heather and his various peaks at Robin through Steve, it’s like there’s this— _almost,_ just out of reach.

“Hey,” says Heather, kicking at the wheels of his chair.

“What,” says Billy, tossing his phone on the desk. Before she can respond, he tugs at the tie holding his hair in a bun, so he can redo it—a tick he’s picked up in the last few months. He ducks his head down and flips it back up in a practiced motion, smoothing down the bumps. When he finally looks back over at Heather, she’s rolling her eyes again—it's pretty much the only look she ever has on her face when he’s around.

“Alright, L'Oréal,” she says dryly. Two more students wonder up to the desk before Billy can flip her off.

After they leave with directions to the second floor, Heather turns back to him and says, “So, did you pick a time to table yet?”

“Eh,” Billy says, reaching to collect the books from the turn-in box so he doesn’t have to look at her.

“You didn't pick one?”

He doesn’t know why she sounds so shocked. “I barely go to those meetings.”

“You could come to more.”

“ _Or,_ I could go to less, and not have to spend my free time talking to awkward freshmen.”

The school’s annual mental health fair is coming up, strategically timed for the harshest, darkest part of winter, when even the cheeriest students are feeling like shit _._ The Gay-Straight Alliance has a booth, to pass out pamphlets and stickers mostly, if Billy remembers right—not exactly how he wants to spend his Sunday afternoon.

Heather finally gets his attention when he runs out of books to sign in, glaring at him, all _disappointed_.

“It’s not only for freshmen, you know, it’s for _everyone_. And there’s no age restriction on questioning, or needing help.”

“Jesus, I know,” says Billy. _This_ is why he stopped going to the meetings. He thought there’d be, like, rally information or movie nights or _something,_ but it was always just one, giant group therapy session for all the queer kids Indiana high schools chewed up and spit out. It’s not like that’s a _problem,_ or anything _—_ it’s just that he can’t really relate _._ He’s from _San Francisco_. He didn’t get bullied for being gay growing up, he got bullied for bringing his tarot cards to school _one time_ in 8th grade.

“Fine,” says Heather, “Don’t help. But it’s bad karma, you know.”

Billy snorts, wishing he could tell her about all the karma he racks up on the daily, helping the _Abbey_is_Fab’_ s of the world get laid.

Heather twists in her chair so her back is to him and then continues to sit in frigid silence for the longest fifteen minutes of Billy’s life. He tries to message Steve to get through it, but he’s at lunch still and won’t reply.

“Fuck it,” says Billy, after he can't take it anymore, “ _Fine_.” He’d honestly rather argue about that dumb show than sit here while his brain melts from boredom. Billy doesn’t know what Heather’s moon sign is, but he has a pretty good guess after this little show.

“You’ll sign up?” Heather asks.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Heather’s blank expression falls away like nothing, replaced with her usual grin. “Cool,” she says. “Me and Robin are signed up for noon, but I think there’s an empty spot after ours.”

“Awesome,” says Billy as sarcastically as he can, but Heather just smiles brightly like she doesn’t notice.

They spend the rest of the shift in more companionable silence, bickering every now and then about shows and celebrities, and whether Thomas Hardy deserves the hard-on their Lit professor has for him.

“He’s shit,” says Billy, kicking his boots up on the desk, feeling jittery as the clock ticks slower and slower towards four. Twenty minutes until he can finally leave and focus on what really matters—making sure Steve’s in a good enough mood to preempt whatever panic is waiting for him tonight.

“What,” says Heather, glaring at him absentmindedly as she scrolls through the online help requests. “His poetry, his novels—”

“All of it,” says Billy. “Shit.”

Heather turns to face him for real, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Did you even finish _Madding Crowd_?”

“I read _Tess_ for Singer last semester,” Billy points out. “That was enough.”

“You know, he actually criticized, like, a lot of the shitty parts of society back then.”

“So, that makes up for the all the rape, or?”

Heather rolls her eyes. “ _Of course_ , it doesn’t, obviously, I’m just saying—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” says a vaguely familiar voice, another student who’s wandered up without them noticing. Billy sort of recognizes him, maybe from a class last year.

“I was looking for this book, but I can’t remember the title,” the guy offers, when both Heather and Billy just stare at him. He _is_ a lot to look at. He’s got old-school Zac Efron bangs, which he keeps flicking out of his dark eyes, and that look shouldn’t be hot anymore, really, but it is. “I was hoping you might be able to help?”

The guy drums his long fingers on the desk, his attention focused on Billy—which is weird, and not a good sign. Most people gravitate towards Heather, because she’s beautiful, obviously, but also because she tends to exude more _approachable_ vibes. Billy’s air of _Do Not Fuck With Me_ has been carefully crafted over the years, but he really ramps it up at the library. It usually means he barely has to talk to anyone during their shift, but clearly, this guy has some kind of immunity.

The intensity of his stare makes Billy shift, wishing he knew Heather well enough to send some kind of hidden signal— _please do not make me deal with this right now._

“Do you remember the author,” Billy asks before the silence can get awkward. He opens the library database on the computer, so he doesn’t have to look at the guy’s heavy gaze or the tilt of his smile. Beneath Billy’s skin, Steve’s nerves flare to life again, so sudden and bright, Billy can almost see a burst of indigo behind his eyelids. He blinks it away and types random letters into the search bar for something to do with his now shaking fingers.

“Hey,” the guy says suddenly. “Weren’t you in that Comp Lit class with Davidson last year?”

“Yup,” Billy says to the screen. He feels Heather kick at the wheels of his chair, and he tries to kick back without looking up.

“That guy was a fucking trip. Were you there when he brought his parrot to class?”

“Must’ve skipped that day,” says Billy, finally looking up with blank eyes, hoping he can convey just how _not interested_ he is. “You needed help with a book?”

“Yeah,” the guy says, not put off at all. He leans slightly over the desk and into Billy’s space, as if he’s trying to look at the screen. “It’s, uh, about the theme of time in Native American literature? I don’t remember the full title but it definitely had the word ‘time’ in it.”

Billy lasts about three seconds breathing in the overpowering scent of the guy’s terrible aftershave, before he shoves his chair back half a foot and says, “You know, I think my computer’s frozen. I’m sure Heather can help you.” He glares at Heather as obviously as he can, and when she just shakes her head back at him, he kicks at her chair, hard enough to make her grip at the desk to keep from sliding away.

“Sure,” says Heather eventually, fake-bight. “Let me see what I can find.”

Luckily, after that, she seems to get the memo and keeps up a steady stream of polite chatter with the guy until she finds the book he was talking about. With no reason to stick around, and with Billy still staring fixedly at the “frozen” computer screen, the guy spares Billy one more glance before he wanders awkwardly away.

“What the hell was that,” says Heather flatly when the guy’s disappeared around the corner. “He was cute!”

“Expert in cute guys, are you,” says Billy, equally annoyed. He has eleven more minutes before he can leave, but it’s gonna feel like an _hour_ now. He knows Heather, and her stupid, optimistic, romantic nonsense. Ever since she came back from a _whole_ winter break with Robin, she’s been infinitely worse.

“I don’t have to like guys to know when they’re hot,” she says, “Or when they’re _into you_. And that guy was totally into you. What gives?”

“Maybe I wasn’t into him,” says Billy, watching the analog secondhand _tick, tick, tick,_ on the clock above them.

“Please,” says Heather, and Billy doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s flicking her hair again. “I’m gay and _I_ was almost into him.”

“Should I tell your girlfriend, or?” says Billy, which is met with another kick, this time at his foot. She doesn’t respond though, clearly trying to get Billy to crack with silence, which, like, _works,_ but fuck her for knowing it. After a minute, he shrugs, and gets out, roughly, “I’m just _not_ , okay? I’m not— _looking_ for shit right now.”

He feels weirdly embarrassed about admitting that, even though it’s nothing. It’s just that the full truth of it—that he’s hopelessly in love with a probably-straight guy who barely knows he exists—is so fucking _cliché_ , it makes Billy curl his fingers into his palms and dig in, just to fight through the wave of _mortification_ that fills him whenever he remembers.

Whether Heather picks up on his sudden mood, he doesn’t know, but she seems to get _something,_ because she adds, in a lighter tone, “Okay, whatever. I’ll help better next time.”

“Help?” says Billy. Eight minutes left before he can leave.

“Sure,” she grins. “I’ll fight ‘em off you, _stud_.”

“My hero,” says Billy, and then whatever patience he’s managed to build over the last twenty years of this shift snaps, and he stands, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. 

“Where are you going,” says Heather, resigned.

“Got a hot date,” says Billy, slinging a strap of his backpack over his shoulder and walking away without another word.

“You’re covering for me next time, asshole!” she calls at his back.

He throws a thumbs-up at her over his shoulder, pulling out his phone with the other hand. He hunches by a wall just before the front doors of the library to scroll through the messages. Steve will definitely be out of lunch by now. He might even be napping, which would suck. Billy’s lost a lot of hours of the day, and he needs to somehow fill Steve’s head with so much confidence and memes and whatever else he can to keep him happy and calm.

**kingg_stevee [2:44]**

Back at my dorm btw. You wanted to tell me something abt my chart?

**kingg_stevee [3:09]**

Also Nancy canceled so I’m free till late, like 9 or something.

**kingg_stevee [3:45]**

No rush tho obviously!

Sorry if your busy

Billy sighs out of his nose, cursing Nancy Wheeler and her stupid fucking _carelessness_. There’s just—a _way_ to tell Steve stuff, and a way _not_ to, and she’s never known how to handle him, to make sure he knows, whatever it is, it’s not his fault. Billy didn’t See what happened this time, but he can tell, just by these few messages, that plenty of damage has been done. Steve hardly ever talks like this anymore, as if he’s not sure of himself or how much he means to Billy—to _star-stuff._

**star-stuff [3:57]**

don’t be sorry stevie. i just got caught up w something but give me 10min ok?

lots of fun stuff to tell you abt

Steve starts typing immediately, and Billy curses himself this time, and _Heather_ , and _work_ , and that whatever-his-name-is _asshole_ who took up his attention. He should’ve responded sooner. Steve’s probably been torturing himself for over an hour now, over-analyzing star-stuff's silence.

**kingg_stevee**

Hey! No worries, I’ve just been chilling

Ready to talk whenever :)

Billy swipes his thumb over the smiley, endeared despite himself, like always. Indigo spikes behind his eyes then, bright and searing, and Billy has to blink fast against the tears that form with it, has to fight against the ache, spreading through every bone in his body, the need to find Steve _right now_ and hold him, make him feel safe and wanted and loved.

Billy shakes himself and hurries out through the library doors, into the terrible, frozen air, forcing his body to remember reality. _This_ is what’s real—Steve, alone in his room, untouchable and clueless, and Billy, alone in the growing dark and nearly powerless to help him.

He used to be _fully_ powerless, though. So, even if their proximity isn’t what gives Billy the _slimmest_ chance of changing things, he has _something._ He has star-stuff. He can try.

_tell me abt lunch,_ Billy types with frigid fingers. His gloves are in his pocket, but some things are more important.

**kingg_stevee**

It was good. Burritos were ok. Robin’s an idiot tho

**star-stuff**

saw ur story. gr8 alien content

**kingg_stevee**

So I can’t rhyme but you can say gr8

**star-stuff**

the difference is i can pull it off

its ironic

**kingg_stevee**

Hmm somehow I don’t think it is

Billy hides his smile in the collar of his jacket and scrolls through one of his meme folders for something to send back.

By the time he gets to his dorm, his fingers are frozen solid. But as he falls onto his bed and imagines Steve in the room above him, curled up under his covers and smiling, too, it seems pretty worth it.

*-.*-.*-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll try to post on Sundays for the foreseeable future. Let me know what you think!


	4. To Be Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What if I’m not gay,” Steve blurts, and it’s probably the margaritas that make him say it, but it could be Robin’s gaze, dark in the low light, and patient. “What if we find him, and it turns out I don’t actually like him, I just like this image of him in my head."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending lots of healthy thoughts to Tom Hanks and his wife, and to all of you! Stay safe! I hope this chapter will be a fun distraction in these scary times <3

_All the ghosts who holler in the night / will try to make you lonely / If in desperation someone says / that you’re the only one they want / you’ll go to sleep beside them / but you’ll wake up all alone / Isn’t it all you ever wanted – to be known?_

_“To Be Known” – Carsie Blanton_

At lunch on Saturday, Robin steals a fry from his plate and, as she’s chewing, says, “So. What’s your favorite thing about Star Boy?”

“What,” says Steve, coughing back the Gatorade that almost went down his windpipe. 

“ _Star Boy,”_ she repeats, and before he can tell her that’s _not_ a thing, she goes on, “All I know so far is that he’s an Aries and he likes Pepsi. Gotta tell ya, I’m not really seeing the appeal. Give me something good.”

“I don’t know, dude,” he says, trying not to think about the first thing that comes to mind.

“ _Steve_. Do you even realize what’s _happening_ right now? You’ve got an internet romance, secret identities, a fucking _love triangle_ —you are _literally_ living _You’ve Got Mail_ , and if you don’t find your Tom Hanks soon, you’re gonna be stuck with the pretentious know-it-all for the rest of your life. I’m _trying_ to help you here, but I’ve got nothing to go on.”

Steve’s stomach clenches at _love triangle,_ and he stamps down on the instinct to snap at Robin, to say, _that’s not what it is._ He’s not _cheating,_ not that it really matters at this point—as if Nancy hasn’t already—

“Wait,” says Steve, finally hearing the rest of the sentence. “Why am I Meg Ryan in this scenario?”

Robin grins. “Um, your beautiful, luscious locks? Also, you’re clearly the adorable crowd favorite. Which just means we have to be on the lookout for an asshole, who frankly doesn’t deserve you, but has the same dumb sense of humor and worships the ground you walk on.” She frowns then, realizing something. “You know the point of that movie is that they’re actually falling in love with their nemesis and they don’t even know it. Maybe we’re _not_ looking for a stranger. Maybe Star Boy is right under our noses—quick, who’s your biggest rival?”

“Stop saying _Star Boy,_ we’re not doing that. And, do people even have rivals in real life?”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Please. You are _so_ one to talk. I can think of, like, four people who would qualify off the top of my head.”

“What, for me or for you?” When she points at him, he frowns and demands, “ _Who_?”

Robin starts to tick off her fingers as she says, “That other Steve on your floor, who’s, like, a _jacked_ football player and convinced everyone in your dorm to call you _Tiny Steve._ ”

“I hate that guy,” Steve mutters as Robin keeps going.

“That dude in your psych class last semester who wouldn’t stop asking you questions during the lecture.”

“You know _I_ got in trouble whenever he did that.”

“I know, Tiny Steve,” says Robin, “You’ve only mentioned it like a thousand times. Hence—rival,” she says, wiggling the finger that represents Rival Number Two. She keeps going, “There’s the mystery person who you think keeps stealing your shirts out of the dryer.”

“Look, _socks_ are one thing, but entire _shirts_ don’t just disappear in the wash! I am _not_ crazy.”

Robin just looks at him and flicks another finger up, “Plus—don’t get mad—that photography major who you saw hooking up with—”

“Fuck off,” says Steve, glaring. That’s a low fucking blow. “That doesn’t count as a rival, he’s just a fucking asshole.”

“I know,” says Robin, the humor slipping from her voice. She lowers her fingers. “I shouldn’t have said it. Sorry.” After a few seconds of guilty shuffling, she pushes the cookie on her tray towards him. “Apology snickerdoodle?”

Well, he’s not gonna say _no_ to a snickerdoodle. Robin smiles when he takes a bite and he’s just about to say something while chewing, to make fun of her, when her eyes light up and she slaps her hand down on the table with a _thwack_ so loud people at other tables twist in their seats to stare at them.

“What is wrong with you,” says Steve through the chewed-up cookie.

“I’ve got it,” she says. “ _Oh_ , boy. Do I got it.”

“What,” says Steve.

“I know who it is,” she says, as smug as he’s ever seen her, grinning so wide it probably hurts.

“No, you don’t.”

“Okay, _obviously_ I don’t have proof, but if we’re going by the logic of _You’ve Got Mail_ —”

“Which we’re not.”

“—then, I _absolutely_ know who it is.”

“Who?”

Robin leans forward in her seat, drawing out the suspense and forcing Steve to lean forward too, on instinct.

“Billy Hargrove,” she whispers and then leans back, grinning, pleased as fucking punch.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” says Steve. The thought is so awful, he feels like he needs to bleach his brain just for thinking it.

Because Star Bo— _star-stuff_ is _not_ Billy Hargrove. Star-stuff is funny and kind and cares about Steve. He spends, like, good chunks of time thinking about Steve’s chart and how it’ll align to what’s going on with the planets on any given day. Even if it means nothing, in reality, that’s still thoughtful. Billy Hargrove has never done anything thoughtful or kind in his life. He’s an arrogant, self-absorbed, hipster _shithead_ who thinks he’s god’s gift to society just because he’s ripped and has, like, _sort of_ nice hair. Every single thing about him, down to his _vegan leather jacket_ and that fucking _man-bun_ , is, like, _designed_ to repulse Steve in every possible way.

He only knows Billy from his orientation group, but that one week was enough to know he could live the rest of his life in peace if he never so much as breathed the same air as the guy again. But, like a running cosmic joke, Steve’s never been able to escape him. It’s just another way this school is trying to squeeze every last bit of joy out of him before he graduates.

Cause Billy is _everywhere._ He lived in Steve’s dorm last year and does this year too. They have the same major, so they share at least one class every semester—this past fall, they had _three_ together. Steve seriously thought about transferring. If it weren’t for star-stuff distracting him, he’s not sure he would’ve made it.

He can’t believe Robin would even suggest that they’re the same person. It’s worse than that photography fucker. It’s just—

“Disgusting,” Steve says. “Just—ugh, god. How could you—that is—why would you _say_ that. The fact that you would even—to _my face_ — _ugh_.” The longer he goes on, the higher Robin’s eyebrows go up, but he can’t help it. It’s just _offensive_.

“Okay, I was, like, 90% joking,” says Robin, “But talk about _protest_ _too much_ —you got something you want to share?”

“Only that it’s rude you would even _pretend_ that’s a possibility.”

“Mmm, I don’t think so.” Robin’s looking at him like she’s trying to figure out a stats problem. “I think that’s what happened when I brought up photography guy—which was actually shitty, and I am sorry. No, this is something else. This is—” She cuts herself off just to keep staring.

“Stop looking at me.”

Robin taps her chin like a fucking TV detective. “This is interesting.”

“Okay,” says Steve, moving to get up. He needs to get away from all this crazy and he needs more Gatorade. “I’m pulling you from this investigation, on the grounds that you’re insane.”

“Too late, dude. I’m in it to win it.”

“How are you going to _win_ this? No, never mind, I don’t want to know.” As he walks towards the drinks, Robin calls after him, like a lunatic,

“I’ll solve this yet, Tiny Steve!”

Twenty minutes later, when Steve thinks they’ve finally moved on to other topics, Robin says, “You never answered my question.”

“Bout what,” says Steve through a mouthful of fries. He really needs to stop doing that—it wasn’t even to make fun of Robin this time. He’s starting to think she’s a bad influence on him.

“About Star Boy.” Steve groans but Robin goes on, “Come _on,_ tell me. What’s your favorite thing about him? Why am _I_ , your rom-com viewer, rooting for him?”

Steve opens his mouth to say, _he’s funny,_ because it’s the first thing that comes to mind that isn’t too revealing, but for some reason instead what comes out is, “He cares about me.”

Robin sort of half-smiles but stills looks unconvinced. “Lots of people care about you, Steve.”

“Yeah, okay,” he admits, “But, it’s more like— _how_ he does it, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Steve wonders if there’s any way to say this without sounding like the saddest, neediest person alive, but his Venus is in Leo, after all. That’s just who he is. “Look, we’ve been here for what, like, two hours?”

“Sure,” says Robin.

“Okay,” says Steve, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his hoodie. “That’s not that long, but I’ll bet you the rest of my fries that he’s sent me something since I checked two hours ago.”

“Okay,” says Robin slowly, leaning forward to watch as he clicks the screen open. Just like he thought, there’s a notification waiting on his lock screen,

**Instagram**

**[star-stuff] sent a message**

Even though she’s looking already, he tilts the phone to show her. “See?”

“So…” Robin starts, “You like that he messages you constantly?” 

Steve shrugs and can’t stop himself from opening the notification now that he’s seen it. He smiles as he reads,  
  


**star-stuff [1:11 PM]**

sometimes people do shit n u just Know theyre a scorpio moon yk what i mean

Steve can feel Robin’s eyes on him, but he responds anyway—he can’t not.

**kingg_stevee [2:03 PM]**

You’re a Scorpio moon

**star-stuff**

ye but i make it cute

Steve laughs and sends,

**kingg_stevee**

Could’ve fooled me

He shuts his screen again and stuffs his phone away before star-stuff can respond. He can feel it buzz a second later, but he’s tried to make a habit of not pulling his phone out at meals. Mainly because he eats with Nancy a lot, and it would just be—weird.

When he finally looks at Robin again, she’s grinning, which is never a good sign.

“What,” he says.

“Nothing,” says Robin. “So, your favorite thing is that he’s obsessed with you? Seems a little self-centered, buddy.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “He’s not _obsessed_ with me. It’s just—you know when you text people, and there’s all these, like, hidden rules and shit? Like—waiting a certain amount of time before texting back, no _double texting_ or whatever. With him, from the beginning, there was none of that, you know? He just sends me shit. No matter how long it’s been since I’ve responded, or even when he knows I’m at work and can’t reply. He doesn’t always message me cause he wants to talk. He just, like, sees things I’ll like or wants to tell me shit about my chart, and just sends it. It sounds stupid, but. It’s just _nice,_ to know he thinks about me that much.”

Steve’s been fiddling with his drink, but when he finishes and Robin doesn’t say something mocking like he was expecting, he finally looks up. She’s just staring at him again, still smiling, but it’s smaller now, less of a grin.

“What,” he says self-consciously. He _knows_ how dumb he sounds.

Robin shakes her head at him. “You are such a baby deer,” she says.

“I don’t know what that means,” says Steve.

“It means I’m dedicated now, really. I was in it before, but now I mean business. This is serious shit, Steve.”

“Okay?”

“Is _your_ head in the game? Because we _are_ going to find Star Boy and I _will_ be giving the best man speech at your wedding, and I won’t be taking no for an answer.”

“Okay, well _that’s_ a little—”

“Um, hi.”

Steve and Robin look up in sync at the interruption, and there’s Nancy, suddenly, standing by their table. She looks back and forth between them a few times, and for a second it seems like she might ask him _what the fuck,_ which is fair. Before last week, him and Robin had never really hung out before. Steve’s not sure Nancy even recognizes her out of their ridiculous work uniforms.

“Hi,” Steve says, trying not to sound surprised, or nervous. He’s not doing anything wrong, eating lunch with Robin, but he’s not sure how long she’s been standing there.

“So,” says Nancy, after a beat, like maybe she was expecting more than _hi._ “I was just eating with Barb—” she gestures at the other end of the dining hall, where Steve can make out the bright red of Barb’s hair, “Anyway, I was going text you, but I have this group presentation for Spanish, and tonight’s the only time that we can all meet, so I’m going to have to skip dinner.” She looks upset, and Steve’s not really sure why that seems strange to him—of course she’s upset she has to miss their date. But she keeps glancing at Robin, and it makes something bitter and ugly swell up in Steve’s throat.

For just a second, he thinks about playing into it, making her think something _is_ going on between them. He wants to see the terrible ache he felt all last semester mirrored on her face, wants to make her hurt that way, too—but it’s only for a second. And then he just feels stupid and shitty, opens his mouth to reassure her that _—_

“I’m gay,” Robin blurts, and then it’s Steve and Nancy’s turn to look at her in sync. Robin makes a weird, fluttery motion with her hand. “Just in case you were—this is just. Steve and I are _friends,_ but uh, I have a girlfriend. So.”

“Okay…” says Nancy, meeting Robin’s awkward smile with her own. “Cool. So, Steve, can we do dinner later? Maybe Monday?” She looks back at him, and Steve tries to hide the ache in his gut that rips open again, the way it always does at these small, stupid things—little slips that remind him of the distance between them, getting bigger all the time.

“I work Monday nights,” he says and doesn’t mention that he’s worked Monday nights for weeks.

“Oh,” says Nancy. “Okay. Another time, I guess? I’ll text you.” She shuffles sort of, grips at the strap of her bag.

“Okay,” says Steve.

Across the room, Barb’s started to make her way towards them, and Nance half-turns to watch her weave around the slowly emptying tables.

“I gotta go,” says Nancy.

“Yeah,” says Steve. “It’s cool. We can—we’ll figure it out later.”

With one more apologetic smile, Nancy turns away to meet Barb in the middle and then they both head out into the snow. After a long, long beat, Robin says,

“ _Wow_.”

“What,” says Steve.  
  
“That was…”

“ _What,”_ he snaps. Robin’s eyebrows shoot up at his tone, and Steve slumps back into his seat, tugs the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Robin shrugs, accepting the apology, and waits a few more seconds before she asks, “Is it always like that with you guys?”

“Like what,” Steve says, playing with a loose thread on his cuff instead of looking at her.

“I don’t know— _stilted_. You guys were like divorced parents trying to sort out who gets the kids for the weekend.”

“Um, projecting much?”

“No, no,” Robin chides, “we’re talking about _your_ issues right now.”

“We’re _always_ talking about my issues,” he mutters. When he glances up at her, Robin’s grinning again.

“That’s cause there are _so many_ to choose from.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” He walked into that one. He finally snaps the thread from his sleeve and starts messing with his empty cup instead, turning it over in his hands. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” he says suddenly, trying to steer the subject away from his _many issues_.

“Steve, what.” He looks up at Robin’s tone, and she’s got that pursed-lip look she gets when she thinks he’s _out dingus-ed himself._

“What?”

“I literally talk about her all the time.” At Steve’s blank look, she adds, “ _Heather_?”

Oh. Wait. “Heather’s your _girlfriend_?”

“ _Steve.”_

“I thought she was your friend! I mean. It’s not like you talk about _dates_ or, like, _romantic_ stuff you do with her.”

“I _literally_ told you that she came home with me over winter break. Did you think that was, like, a _friends_ five-week vacation?” Steve stays silent, because, like. Yeah? “ _Steve,_ ” Robin says again.

“Oh my god, _sorry,_ okay? Friends can take vacations together! I don’t know, I thought maybe she was, like, from somewhere far away or something, and couldn’t make it home.”

“Unbelievable,” says Robin. “Gal pal-ed by own best friend.”

“Sorry,” Steve says again. “I’m not, like—good at this stuff,” he mumbles the last part, second-guessing it even as it comes out of his mouth. Is that a _homophobic_ to say?

Robin doesn’t look annoyed, though. “Worry not, young padawan,” she says. “Much to learn you still have.”

“God, you’re such a freak.” Robin throws a grape at him for that, but he manages to catch it in his mouth, and her face lights up at the feat.

Steve chews obnoxiously at her, until Robin wrinkles her nose and says, “Gross, Steve. Don’t you have manners?”

He flips her off and tries to steal another grape from her plate. Robin bats his hand and holds one up like she’s going to throw it again.

“Two for two?” she says.

He manages four in a row before she hits him in the eye, and they have to call it.

“Hey,” says Robin, later, after they’ve cleaned up their trays and are tugging on their layers to brave the cold.

“What,” Steve says, glancing at her as he tries to zip up his jacket—shit’s always getting caught.

“You should come hang out with me and Heather tonight.”

“Uh,” says Steve, finally getting the zipper free. He tugs it all the way up and tucks his chin behind the collar. “You want me to crash your date?”

Robin shrugs and mirrors his hunched posture, hiding the bottom half of her face in her giant scarf. “It’s not really a date—more like a movie night thing. Our other friends join sometimes. I just thought—you know. Since you’re free.” She shrugs again, and Steve hears what she doesn’t say— _since your girlfriend canceled on you._

Steve thinks about what his night would probably be like now that he _is_ free—scrolling aimlessly through Instagram and listening to some emo Spotify playlist to make himself feel worse— _songs to listen to when your girlfriend’s cheating on you but you’re too chicken-shit to break up with her._

“Yeah,” he says, before he can think too much about it. “If you’re sure it’s okay.”

“Totally,” says Robin, and Steve can hear her grin, even though it’s hidden by all that rainbow wool.

“Cool,” he says and Robin echoes with her own, _cool,_ before they push open the double doors and get hit with a blast of freezing wind.

“Fuck me,” Robin mutters. She offers him one last wave and then disappears into the white fog.

Steve feels another buzz in his pocket as he makes his way back to his dorm. There’s no real wonder who it’ll be, and just knowing there are _two_ messages from star-stuff waiting for him is enough to make him feel a little warmer, even in the bitter, winter air.

*-.*-.*-.

“Best. Soundtrack. Ever,” says Heather as the credits start to roll.

“Best _movie_ ever,” Robin counters, tugging the braid loose from Heather’s hair so she can start over again. Heather tilts her head back onto the bed and stares up at Robin.

“You’re _so_ right,” she says.

Steve watches them look all _lovingly_ at each other for as long as he can stand, and then he flops over to lie fully on the floor. He never would in his own room because, like, _gross,_ but it’s so _clean_ in here. Even the carpet smells like some kind of perfume or soap— _flowery_.

“Your floor smells nice,” he says, his words muffled. 

He can hear them both laugh and then Heather says, “It’s the Febreze.”

“Hmm.” Maybe he should get Febreze. Is that only for girls? Or is he, like, allowed now that he’s _partly gay_ or something.

“Is Febreze gay?” he asks, because his thought-to-mouth filter doesn’t seem to be working right. It’s probably the margaritas. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever even _had_ a margarita before tonight, but apparently, they’re a staple of movie nights, so it’s just, like, a week of new things, for him. Steve wonders if there’s something in the stars about that—he should message Star Boy and ask. He’d have to roll over and find his phone, though, and that feels like a lot, just now.

Someone—probably Robin—makes a pained sort of sound and then Heather says, patiently, like he’s a small child, “Febreze is a fabric freshener. But _I’m_ gay and I use it, so yeah, I guess that makes it gay.” He thought so.

Robin laughs, and then there’s a nudge at Steve’s foot.

“What’d you think, Kathleen Kelly,” she says. “Did the movie enlighten your little situation?”

Not really, except— “Maybe I should work at a bookstore.”

Heather laughs this time. “I think that’s, like, the exact opposite lesson of this movie.”

He’s not sure what else he’s supposed to think. He doesn’t _want_ his thing with Star Boy to be like _You’ve Got Mail_ —the idea that they could really be rivals makes his stomach twist, like he’s _failing_ , even at this.

He rolls onto his back so he can stare at the little plastic stars stuck to Heather’s ceiling. “Do you really think he hates me?” he asks, and he doesn’t mean it to come out so soft, so _pathetic,_ but he can’t really help it. His girlfriend already hates him. His parents hate him. Big Steve from his floor hates him, and whoever is stealing his shit, too. If he finds out that Star Boy hates him, it’ll be the last straw. He’ll just _die,_ probably, like Tinker Bell when people don’t clap for her enough. His eyes sting just thinking about it, so he clenches them shut.

He can hear Robin and Heather murmuring to each other, too quiet for him to catch, and then there’s a sound like blankets moving around. A hand touches at his hair. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, cause he might not be able to keep the tears from slipping out. The hand pets at him a little more and then settles, a steady weight.

“No,” says Robin softly. “I don’t think so. I think he really likes you.”

“Yeah?” says Steve. It comes out rough and gross.

“Yeah,” says Robin.

“Am I allowed to know what’s going on,” says Heather, “or is this a Scoops-Ahoy-employees-only sort of thing?” That finally makes Steve open his eyes. He stares at Robin’s face, upside down above his own.

“You didn’t tell her?”

Robin gives him her classic _you’re an idiot_ look. “Of course not,” she says. “That’s just bro-code, dude. This sort of thing is only for _you_ to tell."

Steve has to tilt sideways to peer at Heather over by the bed. “Why did you think we were watching _You’ve Got Mail_?” he asks.

Heather blinks in surprise. “It’s my favorite movie,” she says. “We watch it, like, once a month.”

“Oh my god,” says Steve, and then he falls back over to stare at Robin. “Do you think that’s why this is happening to me?”

“Yes,” says Robin seriously, “Your love life is a 90s rom-com train wreck because _You’ve Got Mail_ is my girlfriend’s favorite movie, and I’m God.”

“I knew it,” says Steve.

“Are you living _You’ve Got Mail_?” Heather asks, far too excited.

“No,” says Steve, at the same time that Robin says, “Yes.”

Steve frowns up at her. “That’s not what this is. Doesn’t Meg Ryan know that her email guy lives in New York? Star Boy could be _anywhere_ in the world. He probably lives in, like, _Australia_ , or something. We _don’t_ know each other.”

Robin pats at his head again, all patronizing, and he shifts to get away, just as Heather says, “ _Oh_. Are you—” The awkward way she cuts herself off makes Steve sit up to look at her, but she’s looking at Robin instead.

Robin makes some kind of complicated gesture and says, deliberately slow, “He doesn’t know yet. He doesn’t have to.”

Heather rolls her eyes at that, in an affectionate sort of way. She finally looks at Steve when she asks, “Has she been gay mother hen-ing you?”

“Um,” says Steve. He tries to come up with a more coherent answer, but Heather doesn’t seem to need one.

“You spend _one_ summer volunteering at an LGBT center…” she trails off, grinning at Robin.

“And I learned a lot!” says Robin, pointing at Heather and then at Steve, like he’s part of this. He doesn’t feel part of it. He has no idea what’s going on.

“Like—he doesn’t have to label himself,” Robin says. “And we’re working on the internalized heteronormativity—”

“He _just_ asked if Febreze was gay—”

“I said _we’re working on it_! It’s been a week, okay. I’m not the gay Mother Theresa.”

Heather’s lips twitch, like she’s following any of this. Steve is not following any of this.

“Gay Usain Bolt,” Heather offers.

Robin grins. “Gay Serena Williams.”

“God. Can you imagine?”

“Believe me, I do.”

“I’ll allow it,” says Heather, and then they smile at each other some more.

Steve is very lost. He didn’t think any of those people were gay, but he doesn’t really pay attention to the news. It bums him out.

“Are _sports_ gay now?” he says, cause that feels like a relevant question.

“Oh, baby deer,” says Robin, patting his knee. “Sports have always been gay.”

After they’ve snickered about that for a while, Heather says, “So, do I get to know your rom-com story?”

Robin turns to Steve and raises an eyebrow, like, _your call._ Steve shrugs. At this point, it seems kind of rude to keep talking about it and not tell Heather the details. And, besides, Steve likes her a lot already. She has scented candles that smell like pumpkins, a poster of Uma Thurman above her bed, and—as he learned at some point tonight—she’s a Taurus. Steve respects all of those things.

But he’s pretty tired, and a little raw from the movie, somehow. “You tell it,” he says to Robin and then curls himself into a blanket burrito with Heather’s fluffy, pink throw.

So, Robin moves to join Heather on the bed, and then launches into the story, all the way from the beginning, with Dustin and the natal chart _he_ _paid for,_ to the past few days, and Robin’s theory that Star Boy is one of Steve’s _many rivals_.

“Wait,” Heather interrupts as Robin’s explaining the whole drama with Big Steve. “What did you say the account was called?”

“Star-stuff,” says Robin, which Steve is actually impressed she remembered. She’s been calling him _Star Boy_ pretty much exclusively.

“ _Shut_ _up,_ ” says Heather, with enough pure shock that Steve pokes his head out from the blanket to see what’s going on.

Heather is scrambling around on the bed for something, and then she pulls her phone out from the tangled duvet. She thumbs it open, and there’s a long moment when he and Robin just wait around and shrug at each other. Finally, Heather finds what she’s looking for and shoves the phone screen at them both, triumphantly.

“I _follow_ them,” she says, grinning. “I’ve followed them for, like, years.”

Robin turns to Steve with a matching grin. “This is amazing,” she says, awed. But Steve doesn’t see how this really makes a difference. It’s a weird coincidence, sure, but star-stuff has, like, thirty thousand followers. It’s not _that_ strange.

“Oh, we are _definitely_ finding this motherfucker.”

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” Steve echoes, “You know we’re not _actually_ in the 90s, right? Also, how does this help at all?”

“Um, if Heather has followed him for years, she _obviously_ has more intel than you.”

“No, she doesn’t,” says Steve, not really sure why the thought annoys him so much. He knows it’s only been a few months, but he _knows_ star-stuff—they talk _every day_. Steve knows him way better than some random follower.

“I probably don’t,” Heather admits, shrugging apologetically at Robin. “I can definitely try to help, though! I can DM him, too, maybe. Try to find out stuff.”

“ _No_ ,” says Steve quickly, the thought making his skin itch. Both Heather and Robin turn to look at him, and he knows he sounds like a crazy person, but talking with star-stuff is _his_ thing.

“Sorry,” he says when the silence turns awkward. “I just—don’t think that would help. He’s kind of private.”

“Okay,” says Robin after a beat. “Well, she can still help us with the astrology stuff. I know you know some of it, too, Steve, but you picked it up by accident. Heather _actively researches_ this shit.” 

Heather shrugs, not sorry this time. “I just think it’s fun,” she says.

Robin smiles at her. “And I love that about you,” she says. She leans in to kiss Heather’s cheek, and if Steve has to look away, it’s not because he’s homophobic—it’s just. There are maybe two people in the world who would kiss him like that, but neither of them will—for very different reasons, both of which make Steve feel hollow inside, that old ache spreading again.

“Anyway,” says Robin. “I have this theory, but I think I need an astrology expert to weigh in.”

“I knew this day would come,” says Heather. “All my training was for this exact moment.”

Robins laughs and goes on, “Okay, so. Follow me on this—Steve says he knows Star Boy’s full star chart, right?” Steve nods when she looks at him for confirmation. “Isn’t there a way we can, like, reverse engineer that information? Like, figure out Star Boy’s birthday from the position of the planets when he was born—god, I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth right now.”

“This is the best day of my life,” says Heather. “You don’t even know,” she adds to Steve. “Robin never shuts up about how stupid and useless astrology is—and now look. It’s your only hope.”

“Help me, Heather Holloway,” says Robin predictably, “you’re my only hope.” Heather laughs and tugs at one of Robin’s pigtails—another addition from the earlier braid train that Steve barely managed to get out of.

“You’re such a dork,” says Heather, with so much honest affection, it makes Steve’s eyes sting and he has to look away again.

“What do you think, Obi Wan,” says Robin after a beat. “Can we do it?”

“I think so,” says Heather, “It might take a while, though. We’d have to check where the moon was each year during the right sun sign—and we’d have to know where he was born.” She looks at Steve. “Do you know that?” Robin looks at him too.

The thing is—Steve does know. It’s one of the few clues he still hasn’t told Robin about. It felt too personal, even more than star-stuff being a guy. The place he was born was more than a casual anecdote—it was a crucial key to his identity. Steve knows Star Boy knows that, and he told Steve anyway. When he messaged Steve, back in December,

**[star-stuff]**

you'd know that if you were born in SF instead of the fucking hoosier state u dumb hick

Steve saw through the joke, easy—knew exactly what he was offering.

It’s a big deal in terms of astrology, but it’s not like he was telling Steve where to _find_ him. Just because you were born some place didn’t mean you stayed there. Star Boy really _could_ be anywhere in the world. And—and even if it _did_ mean that, even if this is the biggest clue Steve has—even _then_ , he would rather pretend he doesn’t know, would rather go back in time and call this whole thing off, than tell Robin and Heather right now. 

Because it’s already _so much_ to handle, that this person Steve is falling in love with is more than a profile and chat bubbles—that he’s a _boy_ , probably, with a body and hands and a face, with his own feelings and thoughts and dreams. The fact that Steve could drive three days, two if he pushed it, and _see him_ —it’s too much. It’s just too much.

Because it’s one thing to be in love with a boy in theory, and another to face him, to hold his hand and kiss him like a girl and _be_ with him. Even now, in the clean safety of Heather’s room, watching their easy closeness—Robin’s fingers tangled with Heather’s like an afterthought—Steve isn’t sure. He just doesn’t know, if he’s capable of that, if it would feel _right_ the way things with Nancy feel right or—the way they used to.

Heather and Robin keep looking at him, and the growing silence isn’t making them turn away or change their minds. It just makes their stares heavier, harder to bear.

After maybe a million hours, Robin says, “Steve?”, which probably means he should say something.

He wonders what they would do if he asked them to drop it. If he said, suddenly, that he’s changed his mind, that he’s happy with Nancy, or he’ll be happy alone when she finally leaves him, and that the idea of tracking down the stranger he met online seems stupid and dangerous—would they let it go?

“Talk to me, Goose,” says Robin, and suddenly she’s sitting next to him again. She flicks at his arm. “What’s going on?”

“What if I’m not gay,” he blurts, and it’s probably the margaritas that make him say it, but it could be Robin’s gaze, dark in the low light, and patient. “What if we find him, and it turns out I don’t actually like him, I just like this image of him in my head—or what if I _can’t_ be with him cause he’s old, or ugly, or, or a _Republican_. What if he listens to Drake? What if he drives _a Jeep_?”

“Steve,” says Robin, pressing her palms to his cheeks and holding him there. “Breathe.”

Steve breathes, or really tries to, anyway.

“Okay, look,” says Robin after he makes a good effort. “All this?” She motions at Heather, at the room, at the empty cups and fluffy blankets. “It’s just—to _help_ you. Okay? And if helping you means finding Star Boy, then that’s what we’re going to do. If it means mediating your break-up with she-who-will-not-be-named, then _that’s_ what we’ll do. If it means—hunting down the wacko stealing your laundry, we’ll do _that._ I just. I _like_ you, you weirdo,” she says, rueful, flicking him again. “You say dumb shit sometimes, but you’re mostly harmless. I think you need to _work out your shit_ ,” she pokes him in the chest with each word, “But I didn’t mean to push you. If you don’t want to actually find him, we can just, put on another movie and forget about it, okay?”

Okay. That’s good—that’s what Steve wants. He wants whatever will make the jack-rabbit thump of his heart settle back to normal, and that’s probably more 90s movies and not stalking strangers on the internet.

He’s about to tell Robin to forget everything, but then his phone buzzes in his pocket. Steve digs it out, hoping for the first time he can remember that it’s not who he thinks it is.

**star-stuff [10:58 PM]**

*sent a photo*

**star-stuff [10:58 PM]**

you ^

Even now, Steve is helpless against the warm, shivery thing waking up inside him, just at the notification. He swipes the message open. The photo is a screenshot of a tweet:

**to my soulmate, come fucking get me I hate it here**

Steve laughs, and if it comes out hitchy with tears, that’s nobody’s business.

“What is it,” says Robin quietly, still beside him. Steve shakes his head and stares at the tweet, dumb and ridiculous, and warming him beyond belief.

“He knows me,” says Steve, scrolling back through the endless stream of messages from tonight, and earlier in the day—just constant reminders that, even if Steve is alone in every other way, he has _this_. His eyes are blurry and wet, but he looks at Robin anyway. “No one has ever known me the way he knows me.”

She doesn’t nod or smile or laugh—she just looks at him, carefully neutral, and says, in that same soft voice, “What do you want to do?”

Steve looks at his phone without seeing it. He thinks about his hands, not shaking anymore, and his heart, calm and steady, and thinks about how easy it is for star-stuff to do that—to make him feel settled and real.

“I want to know him,” says Steve, and it feels _right_ , as he says it—like a line he was supposed to recite, and he only just remembered. It feels so important, he says it again. “I want to know him.”

When he looks at her this time, Robin is grinning.

“Hell yeah,” she says, and puts both her hands on his shoulders to shake him. “That’s what I’m talking about. Back in business, baby! Tell me you know where he was born.”

Steve laughs, not at all surprised that Robin remembers where they left off before Steve’s momentary freak out. He clenches his fingers around his phone and breathes deeply, in and out, just once. Then he says,

“Yeah, I do.”

*-.*-.*-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	5. BITCH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy wipes at his eyes angrily, hating Steve suddenly, so much, for doing this to him, for making this so hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all staying safe! This chapter is about as angsty as this story gets so, sorry I can't offer you more fluff in this tough time, but just know there's like 30k more of that coming :)

_You know what they say / It takes a bitch to know a bitch_

_“BITCH (takes one to know one)” – Lennon Stella_

Steve’s texts dwindle after he leaves for his movie night. For the next few hours, Billy lies in bed, his phone resting on his chest in case Steve needs him, listening to Steve’s _big sad_ playlist with a Spotify account he made specifically to track Steve’s moods. It’s hard not to fall into one of his more regular spirals, thinking over and over, _this can’t be my life._

The immense, terrible tragedy of Billy’s whole pathetic situation—that he’s here in fucking _Indiana_ , in this shoebox of a bedroom, at the beck and call of a boy who doesn’t, really, know he exists—overwhelms him until it’s a physical weight, crushing his lungs and cutting off his breath. It could be feedback from Steve, which happens sometimes, on the worst nights, but Billy knows it isn’t. Steve’s sadness is bitter like pennies, sharp and purple. It sparks in painful bursts of lightning along his nerves. Billy’s own hurt is slow and sliding, like cold, black mud.

He deals with it like everything else—by scrolling aimlessly for memes, some to put on star-stuff, but mostly to save for later, to send to Steve. Billy has separate albums on his phone, labeled for different moods, so when a dream hits, he doesn’t have to look too long for the right pointed joke.

Billy’s finally drifting off around midnight when his phone buzzes against his chest. He’s so out of it, he thinks at first that it’s Steve’s panic, hitting sudden and furious. But it’s just Instagram, Steve finally responding to that last tweet Billy sent on a stupid whim:

**to my soulmate, come fucking get me I hate it here**

He’d been thinking of Steve—tipsy and laughing but lonely—somewhere warm with Robin and Heather, and the _need_ to be with them broke open in his chest, a pit that grew deeper and deeper and didn’t end. So, he got stupid and bold and sent Steve a meme about _soulmates_ , like that had anything at all to do with stars and wasn’t just what Billy thought every minute of every day.

**kingg_stevee [12:04]**

Legit tho lol

Robin and heather are beign gross

Billy rubs at his eyes with one hand and types with the other, warming inexplicably at Steve’s typo. He’s so careful usually. The pit in Billy’s gut aches—he'd give literally anything to see Steve drunk like he must be, clumsy and ruffled and blushing.

**star-stuff**

gross?

Steve doesn’t respond for a while. Billy figures he’s fallen asleep, so he sort of does too, until another buzz wakes him.

**kingg_stevee [12:23]**

Gross in love

:/

Wht are you doing?

Billy’s heart trips at _love._ Steve must’ve sent that word before, in all the months they’ve been talking, but, dazed from sleep and heavy with longing, it’s impossible for Billy not to imagine other ways Steve could say that to him. He has to breathe deeply a few times before he can think of anything reasonable to write back.

**star-stuff**

talking to u 

**kingg_stevee**

No big plans on Satruday ?

Nerd :/

Billy can hear the floor creak above him and knows Steve’s back in his room. He’s probably changing into his favorite sweatshirt, the maroon one with a hole at the elbow. He’ll wrap himself in a bundle of blankets—he gets cold when he’s drunk—and if he’s had a good night, he might not cry, but he probably will. If Billy holds his breath, it’s like he can almost hear Steve’s heartbeat, quick and unsteady, above him.

And Billy wants— _so much_ —to curl around him, to tuck his knees into the backs of Steve’s knees, to press his hand to Steve’s chest, right above the scar he still has from that time Tommy H. shot him with a BB gun in sixth grade. Billy wants to make Steve so warm and safe that he never cries himself to sleep again.

 _nothings more important than you,_ Billy types.

He’s so tired, and feeling some kind of way from Steve’s sad, shitty music, that he almost really sends it. But he chickens out, like always, not willing to cross that line when Steve doesn’t know the truth of it—doesn’t know how much he hates star-stuff, really. How much he hates Billy.

**star-stuff**

nothings more important that talking to my biggest fan

**kingg_stevee**

Do you have alot of fans ?

**star-stuff**

thousands obvi cant u read. why, jealous?

**kingg_stevee**

Yeh

Billy blinks a few times and waits for Steve to follow up with a joke, but he doesn’t. Billy’s fingers shake when he responds,

**star-stuff**

dont worry stevie youre my favorite

**kingg_stevee**

Yeah?

There’s no universe where Steve isn’t Billy’s favorite _everything_ , and it’s just hard to remember sometimes, that Steve doesn’t know, that he doesn’t have that certainty. Billy’s been sure of Steve from the first time he Saw him—sure that he was special and beautiful and important. That no one else in Steve’s life has told him that is inconceivable.

**star-stuff**

duh

**kingg_stevee**

Do you talk to them too ?

**star-stuff**

who

**kingg_stevee**

Your fans

Billy sighs. He shouldn’t joke so much when Steve is like this, hazy and fragile.

**star-stuff**

i don’t have fans steve

i have customers i guess

When Steve doesn’t reply right away, Billy lets a little more truth slip out, enough to settle him.

**star-stuff**

i only talk to you babe

_kingg_stevee is typing_ appears and lasts for over a minute, long enough for Billy to worry he went too far.

**kingg_stevee**

I only talk to you too. wish you were here

Billy’s heart pangs louder and louder in his chest. Above him, the ceiling creaks, like Steve is rolling over in bed.

**kingg_stevee**

With me

I miss you

Billy has to put his phone down then so he doesn’t throw it. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars, until the burning goes away. Except it doesn’t this time, the tears pooling until they slip down his cheeks. He wipes at them angrily, hating Steve suddenly, _so much,_ for doing this to him, for making this _so hard_. It’s not fair. Steve doesn’t get to say that, to say _I miss you,_ as if he has any idea at all what that’s like.

Billy puts a knuckle in his mouth and bits down until it leaves red-purple teeth marks, until his vision clears enough to see. When he checks his phone again, the words are still there, just the same.

 _I miss you too,_ Billy types.

It’s the right thing to say, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you say, when someone tells you they miss you? But—Billy hesitates, his thumb just over the keys—he can’t send it. It just doesn’t mean the same thing, when Billy writes it.

Steve misses star-stuff because he’s sad and drunk, and because he’s been watching Robin and Heather be stupidly in love all night and he’s jealous. He misses star-stuff, _right now,_ in this moment, because he’s lonely.

Billy misses Steve like a limb, because he knows that if they ever do meet, _really_ meet, if Billy ever gets to hold Steve the way he’s always wanted, he’ll finally be able to _breathe_. Steve misses star-stuff now, maybe for the first time ever, but Billy’s been missing Steve for eleven years.

**star-stuff**

i wish i was with you too

It’s still true, but it doesn’t feel as heavy.

**kingg_stevee**

Wouls you come ?

If you could

And Billy doesn’t have any will left, at this point, to lie.

**star-stuff**

if i could?

in a heartbeat

*-.*-.*-.

Saturday night is peaceful and dreamless, but Billy still doesn’t want to get up the next morning, doesn’t want to check his phone and see all the ways Steve will try to walk back the things he said when he was drunk. 

Except, when Steve finally does message him hours later, past noon, it’s only to complain about his headache and his homework and how short the weekend was. Billy has to scroll back up to convince himself that he didn’t dream it, but it’s still there— _wish you were here, with me, I miss you._

Billy’s not going to call him out on it, so he writes back about green tea for Steve’s head and sodalite crystals for concentration—mostly so Steve will make fun of him for it, and he does. The day passes quickly, and the next one too. Steve never brings it up, so Billy doesn’t either.

It’s a pretty great week, all told—only level three dreams or less—and twice Billy wakes with the traces of Steve’s joy shimmering under his skin, so hot and bright he thinks he must be glowing with it.

A week this good, he’s not sure why the shitshow on Sunday blindsides him. There’s always a storm after the calm, for Billy, but this time he doesn’t See it, because that’s not how it works. He never Sees things fall apart when he’s at the center, has never dreamed anything—good, bad, or worse—if he’s involved. It’s just the necessary shitty twist on this power he has, the great cosmic joke of his life— _what if you could see the wonderful, terrible future of everyone you know or love, but never your own? How fucked up would that be?_ So—he doesn’t have time to prepare.

He goes to the wellness fair to man the table for his timeslot, instantly annoyed the second he opens the gym doors. It takes him forever to find the booth in the gaggle of overly loud and happy freshmen, who somehow still have zest for life, a month into their second semester. Billy’s pretty sure he lost that three weeks in.

When he finally spots the table, he’s not sure how he missed it, what with all the rainbows and flags and the giant cardboard cutout of Harry Styles, circa 2012.

“They still make these?” Billy asks, flicking at Harry’s youthful dimple.

Heather’s eating a Starburst, so she covers her mouth with one hand when she answers, her mouth full, “Why, you want one? I think we have a few more back at the clubhouse.”

“I’m good,” says Billy, taking in the rest of the scene. The booth’s rainbow tablecloth is scattered with candy and plastic bracelets and different pamphlets that might’ve been organized once, but now, a good two hours into the fair, are a jumbled mess of memorable titles like, “So, You Think You’re Pan-Tastic” and “Let’s Get One Things Straight: I’m Not.”

Billy tosses his bag under the table and grabs the nearest one, “Allies Spill Equali-TEA.” He holds it up so Heather can see and asks, “What does this even mean?”

Heather rolls her eyes. “Don’t look at me,” she says, but the dumb smile on her face gives away the culprit.

Billy gestures at the empty chair next to her. “She ditch you?”

Heather starts gathering her things, explaining as she stuffs handfuls of chocolate into her bag, “She just went to find her friend, he got lost looking for us. It’s a mess in here. They should really, like, alphabetize things or something.”

Billy slumps into the vacant chair, the hard plastic and the overwhelming racket of hundreds of chattering students making him regret every decision he’s made in his life that’s led him here.

“—Anyway,” says Heather, like she’s been talking the whole time, and maybe she has, but it’s so fucking _loud_ in here. “He’s gonna table with you, okay, so, just, _be nice_. He’s pretty new to all this.”

“Who?” says Billy.

Heather gives him one of her patented _disappointed_ stares, “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Dude, you are lucky I’m even _here_. And now you want me to listen to things?”

“Oh my god—look. He’s super nice and sweet but he’s kind of clueless about this stuff. I don’t know why Rob thought it was a good idea to have _this_ be his first introduction to the club, but she wanted him to have some exposure or something. I told her maybe you could talk to him, or whatever, because, I don’t know, you can speak that straight-boy bro code—

“I have to do _what_ —”

“You have to _be nice_ ,” says Heather, interrupting him. She puts her hands on her hips like she’s making a point. “I’m serious, Billy.”

“Wait,” he says, his hearing finally catching up to the rest of his brain. “ _Who’s_ coming?”

“Steve,” says Heather, “Robin’s friend, they work together. He’s in our year, I think he’s an Ed major. You are too, right?”

But Billy can’t answer. His ears are burning with Steve’s name, said so casually like that, like he’s just anybody. Before Billy can come up with something to say that isn’t, _he’s coming here?,_ a loud laugh cuts through all the noise, one Billy only knows from dreams.

Heather turns at the sound of Robin saying, “I told you, _asshole_ , that was an accident!”

“Sure,” Steve says, laughter making his voice warm. But Billy gets to watch the joy drain from Steve’s face the moment he catches sight of the table and of Billy sitting behind it. He stops short, his eyes going from Robin to Billy to Robin again, like he can’t quite believe it.

“Is this, like, a joke,” he says to Robin, and he probably means for it to get lost in the noise of the crowded hall, but Billy hears him anyway.

Robin shakes her head, just as confused, “I don’t know, I swear, I—”

“Hey!” says Heather, brightly. She crosses over to Robin and presses a kiss to her cheek, not catching on yet.

“Hey,” says Robin, dumbly, and then, “What’s he doing here?”

“What?” says Heather, “I told you Billy was gonna be here. He was going to—you know,” she nods towards Steve, not so subtlety.

“The Billy you work with is Billy _Hargrove_?”

“You knew that,” says Heather.

“Uh,” says Robin, “No, trust me, I didn’t.” She turns to Steve as she’s saying it, like she’s trying to convince him too.

“Is that, like, a problem?” says Heather, glancing back at Billy and probably realizing they’re not talking nearly as quietly as they should be.

“No,” says Robin quickly, meeting Billy’s eyes briefly before looking away with a flush.

Billy’s met Robin before, at the few GSA meetings he’s been to—she practically runs the club—and he’s never had a problem with her, but he probably does now, with her and Steve’s sudden friendship. She probably hates him, too.

Robin turns to Steve, taking a breath, but he’s already shaking his head. “Nope,” Steve says, “I, uh, just remembered I have, like, shit to do. So—”

“Steve,” says Robin, “Don’t be an asshole.”

“ _I’m_ the asshole?”

“So,” says Billy, pretty sick of them getting away with this shit like he’s not here. He might _know_ that Steve doesn’t like him, but seeing the evidence so explicitly makes his gut clench and burn with shame. “Should I just go, or?”

“ _No_ ,” says Heather emphatically. She glares at Robin and Steve for a beat before turning back to Billy. “I don’t know what’s up with them, but just remember what I said, okay. Robin?” Heather doesn’t wait to see if Robin follows her, just heads out into the crowd of students without looking back. Robin spares one last apologetic look at Steve before she jogs to catch up.

Steve just stands in front of the decked-out, rainbow booth, and Billy can see him taking in the flags and the pamphlets and Billy—maybe his least favorite person in the world. So, it’s a shock, honestly, when Steve doesn’t follow through with his earlier excuse and escape. He sighs through his nose instead and sits down roughly in the empty chair beside Billy, scooching it loudly away to put more space between them.

Minutes go by of terrible, suffocating silence. Steve eats four chocolate Kisses and messes with the wrappers, rolling each one into a tiny ball with his fingertips. Something about that squeezes at Billy’s heart like a vice. He _needs_ to say something, he needs to—

“So,” says Steve, clearing his throat and looking firmly at the silver balls of foil. “You’re—uh. In this club?”

“Yeah,” Billy says roughly.

The thing about Steve, in real life like this, so close that Billy can smell his awful, straight-boy deodorant, is that he makes Billy _stupid_. He makes Billy a full-fledged, zero-braincell idiot, and also kind of a dick, because that’s just what happens to Billy when he’s thrown off, when he’s _flustered_. So, he adds, like an idiot _,_ “Why, are you looking to join?”

Steve scoffs and colors, shifting in his seat. “No, I, uh. I work with Robin—she said she needed, like, volunteers, or whatever.”

“Right,” says Billy. He knew that, of course—that any interest he has in star-stuff is only because Billy’s kept his gender close to his chest. It still stings and sinks something in him to hear it, especially after all that nonsense Heather was saying about—what, giving Steve _advice_?

Billy’s voice is harder than it should be when he adds, “Sorry, shouldn’t have _presumed_. Here.” He slides the ally pamphlet towards Steve’s side of the table. Steve turns the edge of it so he can read and then pulls his hand away like it burned him.

“Not even that, huh,” says Billy, and he knows it isn’t fair, and that he sounds bitter and mean, like an _asshole,_ but it’s just hard to sit here, surrounded by rainbows, with Steve’s messages burning a hole in his pocket—and know that all of it is just a big fucking load of bullshit and wishful thinking.

Steve turns to Billy suddenly, his elbow sending all the little candy wrapper balls scattering to the floor. “What’s your problem, man?” he says.

Billy laughs, a hollow sound. “I’m not the one with the problem, _man_.”

“Seriously? What, because of this?” He flicks at the pamphlet, sending it sliding off the edge of the table and out into the fray of students, who haven’t seemed to notice their rising voices in the din. “You’re seriously gonna try to imply that I’m _homophobic_ , right now? Because I’m from _Nowhere,_ _Indiana_ , so I must be, like, an _ignorant asshole_ , right?”

“You said it, dude, not me.” Billy stares at the pamphlet slowly getting trampled by endless snow-wet boots so he doesn’t have to find out what Steve’s eyes look like when his voice is hard and sharp like that. Steve scoffs, and even though it’s impossible, Billy swears he can hear Steve’s heartbeat, loud and frantic, beneath the racket.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” says Steve, his voice wavering slightly under the anger, enough to get Billy to look at him. His face is pink and furious and beautiful. “But I’m _not_ straight,” he says. Billy feels it like a punch to the gut, but Steve doesn’t notice, goes on, “And just because I don’t flaunt my—my _not being straight_ with what I wear or, or how I talk, doesn’t give you the right to act like you’re so much better than me, like I don’t have the right to be here just as much as you. Isn’t that the whole fucking point of this fair? Or this club? To _welcome_ people? Cause you’re doing a great fucking job of that.”

And Billy knows he needs to say something, to apologize, to do _anything,_ but he can’t stop hearing Steve say _I’m not straight,_ over and over, can’t pull his eyes away from the pink of Steve’s cheeks, getting redder by the second. He can’t _think_ , because Steve’s not straight, _he’s not straight_ , but he hates Billy _so much_ , and his eyes are so _bright_ , and he’s so _beautiful_. 

“—just don’t get you, man,” Steve’s saying when the ringing in Billy’s ears dulls enough for him to hear again. “You walk around this place like it’s a fucking death sentence, like you can’t stand a single person you talk to, but it’s not like anyone _forced_ you to be here. There has to be some _shitty_ school in your _shitty_ state that would take you—so why don’t you take your _man-bun_ , and your _Doc Martins_ , and your _arrogant, holier-than-thou_ attitude and go back to L.A. with all the other _superficial hipster_ _douchebags_.”

Steve’s practically panting when he finishes his little speech. He must have stood up at some point, cause he’s glaring down at Billy now, his hands braced against the table, his fingers white from the strain.

Billy has to get up, he knows he has to, he can’t just keep sitting here staring at the way Steve’s flush goes all down his neck, disappears under the collar of his hoodie. But he feels like how he does in dreams, the worst ones—untethered and scrambled, like if he tried to get up now, he’d leave half of himself behind.

The longer Billy just sits and doesn’t shout back at Steve or storm away, the less sure of himself Steve seems. He pulls his hands from the tables and wipes them roughly on his jeans. His palms sweat like crazy when he’s nervous, when he’s scared, Billy knows. It’s the phantom taste of Steve’s fear, like sour milk, that finally snaps Billy out of it.

He pushes his chair out from the table, welcoming the harsh squeak of it this time. He grabs his bag and turns to Steve before he leaves, wondering if it’s better not to say anything at all. It goes against his every instinct, to let anyone have the last word, but he doesn’t really want to know what his voice sounds like, just now.

Billy shrugs on his jacket, watching Steve watch him, and mutters, finally, after he’s sure his words will come out steady enough, “You’re right. I don’t really know why I’m here.”

As he slinks away, he tries to imagine Steve staring after him—confused, maybe regretful—but he doesn’t look back to check. He doesn’t want to see Steve staring at his phone, not caring at all.

*-.*-.*-.

After Billy has channeled all his self-pity and anger and shame into too many hours at the gym, reps so furious his arms still burn, he collapses, sweaty and miserable, onto his bed. He curls unconsciously into Steve’s usual position, a tight ball of despair under the covers, and finally, finally works up the nerve to thumb open his phone. He hasn’t checked it in five hours, probably the longest he’s gone since this thing between them started, back in the summer.

There are eleven unread messages from kingg_stevee—not the most he’s ever sent, but up there. With shaking fingers, Billy opens the notifications, his eyes flicking over the words, trying to get just the gist without fully taking it in. He doesn’t want to know, just yet, how Steve will tell the story of today. He doesn’t want to read all the terrible things about Billy that Steve didn’t have the time or courage to say to his face.

He’s expecting more bullshit about his earrings or his hair or his too-tight jeans, so he’s surprised when the messages head in a different direction entirely.

**kingg_stevee [3:19]**

I’m just such a shitty person sometimes and I don’t know why

**kingg_stevee [3:19]**

Like I don’t even mean to be I just can’t help it

**kingg_stevee [3:19]**

Is there something in my chart about that?

**kingg_stevee [3:20]**

I'm just destined to say shitty things to people I don’t even know

**kingg_stevee [3:43]**

I'm sure he doesn’t even care but I feel like awful abt it idk

**kingg_stevee [3:49]**

He just drives me crazy

**kingg_stevee [3:49]**

He thinks he’s so much better than me and it makes me so ducking angry I can’t even think

**kingg_stevee [3:50]**

But idk why my instinct when I get like that is to be this terrible person

**kingg_stevee [4:06]**

I don’t want that to be me

**kingg_stevee [4:06]**

I don’t want to be like that anymore

**kingg_stevee [4:34]**

Sorry for ranting. You don't have to actually look at my chart or anything.

Billy’s dreamed of Steve angry before, but he’s never Seen the aftermath—he should’ve guessed it would go like this. That Steve, with his too-big heart and his terrible self-esteem, would turn all that hatred back on himself.

Billy sends a reply before he can think too much about it. He doesn’t want to dwell on this, honestly. He wants to forget it ever happened, wants to go back to yesterday when he could pretend there was a chance Steve could know who he really is and still be able to say, _wish you were here, with me_.

**star-stuff**

whatever you said, he probably deserved it

your mars is in cancer so that’s A Lot, and you have some mars oppositions

ur just impulsive sometimes

Steve’s reply comes instantly and, despite everything, Billy can’t help but feel guilty about that. Steve had a shitty day and then star-stuff ignored him, too—he's probably hours deep into a panicky sulk by now.

**kingg_stevee**

Great

So that’s really why I'm an asshole, because of stars?

_because you were made for me,_ Billy writes, _and i'm an asshole too. you're perfect. even when you say things you don’t mean. even when you mean it._

Billy lets himself imagine the flush on Steve’s face if he really sent it, how his ears would burn red, how he’d bury his face in the crease of his elbow, overwhelmed. But then, unbidden, Billy thinks of Steve’s face at the booth earlier—the way the light and laughter dimmed from his eyes, how his shoulders curved inward. That’s what the sight of Billy does to him, makes him shrink.

Billy deletes the message letter by letter. He sends instead,

**star-stuff**

youre not an asshole stevie. everyone says things they don’t mean

**kingg_stevee**

That’s not really an excuse tho

**star-stuff**

if it makes you feel so shitty, you could just say sorry

**kingg_stevee**

Lol I don’t think so

This guy isn’t really like, the type to accept apologies

That’s fair, Billy thinks. He curls his nails into his palm until it stings. Steve’s right—Billy’s not the forgiving type, not really.

**kingg_stevee**

Its whatever

I'll get over it, I just have to be dramatic first. That’s your go to Leo meme right? Lol

Anyway how was your Sunday?

Billy thinks about making something up, but Steve _likes_ star-stuff. He’ll be sympathetic and kind, probably send more of his dumb smileys. Billy wants that _so bad,_ almost as much as he wants to press his face into the curve of Steve’s neck and whine about his awful day, until Steve plays with his hair and tells him he’s perfect, too, that they can be miserable, terrible people together.

**star-stuff**

pretty shitty tbh

**kingg_stevee**

Aw man :( I'm sorry

Want to rant about it?

**star-stuff**

nah I just want to forget it

**kingg_stevee**

:(

**star-stuff**

don't do that

**kingg_stevee**

?

Oh

:)

**star-stuff**

better

**kingg_stevee**

<3

Billy totally, one hundred percent does _not_ cry over a stupid emoticon heart sent from the same boy who yelled in his face five hours ago. He _doesn’t,_ because that would so fucking pathetic, and he’s not even drunk, so he has no excuse. He _definitely_ has no excuse to send one back, has never sent an emoticon to anyone, because he’s not, like, thirty.

He's not a millennial and he’s not a nerd, but he _is_ pathetic and sad and lonely, and he loves Steve so much he could die from it, so,

**star-stuff**

<3

**kingg_stevee**

Omg

:D

**star-stuff**

i hate u

**kingg_stevee**

I don’t think you do

<3

*-.*-.*-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all, I think Billy's in l*ve
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	6. Sunflower, Vol. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve watches Robin go through five stages of grief before she replies, resigned, “This really isn’t You’ve Got Mail anymore, is it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late-in-the-day update, but this is the longest chapter in this fic I think, so hopefully that makes up for it. 
> 
> I updated the tags to reflect this, but in this chapter there's mention of suicidal thoughts – nothing graphic but please read safely! <3 
> 
> Also, thank you so much to everyone who's read and commented – I love you! Enjoy!

_Sunflower / my eyes / want you more than a melody / Let me inside / Wish I could get to know you_

_“Sunflower, Vol. 6” – Harry Styles_

The mystery breaks open Wednesday morning, when Steve’s late for work. He’s rushing around his room, trying to simultaneously cram everything he needs for his afternoon class into his backpack and finish his Cliff bar so he won’t have ice cream for breakfast again. He’s got one leg in his jeans and half the granola bar in his mouth when there’s a knock at the door—a quick _tap-tap_ and then the sound of sneakers squeaking on the hardwood, hurrying away.

By the time Steve manages to pull his pants all the way up, swallow around the too-large bite, and answer the door, whoever it was is gone. He’s just about to let the door slam closed again when he spots it—something on the floor, small and yellow, with a neon pink Post-It stuck on top.

Steve pulls the sticky off without reading it, too intrigued by the—glue stick? Or some kind of weird marker. It’s only when he squints at the tiny print wrapping around the sides that he figures it out—an EpiPen. Steve’s never really seen one before, not in person. He turns it around a few times, bewildered, before he remembers the note.

_take this with you,_ it says unhelpfully, in small, neat letters.

Steve stands there for a solid thirty seconds, overwhelming confusion rooting him to the spot. The slam of a door down the hall finally snaps him out of it, and in the frantic realization that now he’s really, _really_ late, he just—doesn’t think about it. He shoves the EpiPen into his bag, with a second Cliff bar and a few random pieces of paper that he’s pretty sure are the notes he needs for class, and hightails it to the parking lot.

When he finally gets to Scoops, Robin taps her watch-less wrist at him and says, “Late again, Tiny Steve. You’re never gonna get employee of the month with this kind of record.”

And even though Steve really did mean to start with, _you’ll never believe what the fuck was on my doorstep,_ he says, “That’s not even a thing.”

“Are you kidding,” says Robin. At Steve’s blank look, Robin points behind her shoulder at the overcrowded bulletin board, where Steve can just see the corner of a plaque that reads EMPLOYEE OF TH—. “Are you ever actually _here_ during our shift,” Robin goes on, “or do you just astral project the whole time?”

And then Steve gets so caught up arguing about what is clearly _blatant_ favoritism in this apparently long-running employee contest, that he forgets all about the EpiPen and the note and the weirdness.

Robin’s telling him about the complicated calculations Heather’s been using to figure out Star Boy’s birthday when a pack of kids bursts through the door. They all shove at each other for a while, before half of them peel off and throw themselves into a bunch of chairs near the front windows.

The four that make it over to the counter snicker obnoxiously at Steve and Robin’s uniforms. One of them adds, “Nice hat.”

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Robin shoots back.

“It’s teacher training day,” says another, and then, “I want two large chocolate fudges and one peanut butter swirl on waffle cones.”

“A _please_ would be nice,” Robin mutters as she fishes out a scooper from the clean set. Steve takes the other orders, but with eight cones to scoop and the kids shouting out toppings at random, it takes a while before they finally amble back to their friends.

“God, I hate youths,” says Robin.

“They’re not so bad,” says Steve, watching one kid smack the bottom of another’s cone so it smears chocolate ice cream all over his chin.

Steve’s thinking of Dustin and the rest of the nerds, letting himself get caught up in missing them, when it happens. The kids are already rowdy, so when one of them drops his cone on the floor and starts clutching at his throat, Steve thinks _overdramatic,_ thinks _a stupid prank._ It’s only when the rest of their group quiets, and one kid says in genuine alarm, “Matty, what’s wrong, man, you okay?” that Steve thinks _oh shit._

Robin pushes past him, and it takes Steve a few seconds to follow after her, nearly slipping on the tile in his rush.

“Is he choking?” Robin’s saying when Steve gets to her side.

“I don’t know, man, I don’t know,” says a kid in a green jacket. He tugs at his friend’s sleeve and says again, “Matty, don’t play, dude, you okay?” Matty doesn’t reply. He might not be able to. He just gasps soundlessly and keeps scratching at his neck.

“He can’t be choking,” says another kid, turning to Steve with wide eyes. “He just had a bite of mine, but there wasn’t even anything in it, it’s just ice cream.”

“Is he allergic to something?” Robin asks, nudging green jacket kid out of the way so she can get closer to Matty. When none of them answer, Robin turns to the kid in trouble. “Matty,” she says calmly, gently pulling one of his hands away from his throat. “I need you to do something for me, okay? Squeeze my hand once for yes, and twice for no. Are you allergic to anything?” Steve guesses Matty squeezes once, because Robin nods and goes on, “Okay. That’s good, you’re doing great, you’re going to be fine, okay? Do you use an Epipen?” Squeeze.

A few paces away, Steve stills, his heart slamming even louder against his ribs. _No_. No way. This can’t be why, it _can’t_ be, it doesn’t make _sense_ —

“Do you have it with you?” Robin asks. Steve watches dumbly as Matty shakes his head no, his eyes wide with panic.

Robin glances at the other kids. “Does anyone have an EpiPen?” When they all just stare back at her, she turns to Steve. “Maybe there’s one in the first aid kit, can you—” But Steve’s already running toward the back room, just not for the kit. He skids to a stop beside his backpack, tugging the zipper open and upending all his shit onto the floor. It doesn’t take him long to spot the yellow marker-looking thing he’d taken with him, unthinking, less than an hour ago. He grabs it and races back to the kids, shoving the pen at Robin.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” he says, but Robin takes it from him and twists the cap off with practiced ease.

“My sister’s allergic to peanuts,” she says distractedly before she turns back to the matter at hand. “Matty, I’m going to do it on three, okay?”

On three, Robin plunges the pen into the kid’s thigh, holding it there for a while, murmuring softly to Matty the whole time. Steve registers dimly that he probably should’ve called 911 at some point and pulls out his phone, barely able to swipe it open with his sweaty fingers.

Forty-five minutes later, the EMTs are packing up their bags and heading back to the ambulance. Matty’s mom is clasping Robin’s hand between both of hers, thanking her for the hundredth time. 

“Really,” says the woman, “I don’t know what I would have—I always tell him to take it with him, you know? But boys—they don’t listen at this age. Maybe now—” She shakes her head, cutting herself off. “Thank you. I work just down the street, at Mel’s Diner. You come by anytime you want, okay, sweetheart? Anything you want, it’s on the house.”

Robin smiles meekly and pulls her hand back as soon as she can, awkward always in the face of outright admiration. Moms are sort of a weird thing for her, Steve knows.

The bell above the door jingles as Matty and his mom finally make their way home, and Robin slumps, exhausted, into the nearest booth. Steve sits across from her, his mind still trapped in a weird, panicky spiral, unable to stop thinking, _that was fucked up,_ and _he knew_ and _he’s here._

“We have to call the owner,” Robin groans into the linoleum tabletop. She lifts her head to peer at Steve, her eyes dull with a post-adrenaline haze. “Right? I mean, do you think they could sue? They seemed nice, but, like, this is America. They’re _definitely_ going to sue. We have to call him. Fuck.” She rants for a while more before she seems to realize Steve isn’t bantering back like he usually does.

“You okay?” she says softly. She’s so good at that, Steve thinks. She was so calm during that whole thing, and Steve just froze.

“That was fucked up,” Steve says, the only one of his three thoughts he feels comfortable sharing, just now.

“Yeah,” says Robin. “Thank god there was an EpiPen in that kit. I seriously don’t know what I would have done next. Maybe they sell them at the CVS. Do you think if it was an emergency, they’d let us take one and pay later? I mean, they—”

“It wasn’t in the kit,” says Steve, clenching his fingers into his jeans. He keeps trying to follow that train of thought to the end, but his brain just skitters away from it. He doesn’t want to, it’s too big, he can’t _think._

“What are you talking about,” says Robin.

“I didn’t check the kit,” Steve says, his voice flat as he tries to simultaneously share this part of the story without _thinking_ about it.

“So, where did you get the EpiPen?”

“I had it,” says Steve.

“You had it,” Robin echoes. “Why? You said you didn’t know how to use it.”

“I don’t,” says Steve. He thinks he might only be able to speak in monosyllables right now.

“So, then, _why_ —”

“I think he gave it to me,” says Steve, needing to share this monumental thing with Robin, as much as he can barely wrap his mind around it. He needs her to know, needs somebody else to carry this bat-shit crazy with him.

“What are you— _who_?”

“Star Boy,” says Steve, finally forcing himself to stop zoning out and focus on Robin, to take in the startled look on her face.

“Steve,” says Robin slowly. “What are you talking about.”

“I didn’t tell you everything, about star-stuff,” he says. “I thought I was _crazy_ for even thinking it, but...”

Steve stares down at the speckled tabletop, wishing he had his phone so he could just _ask_ , and not feel like he’s finally fucking losing it. He wishes he could message Star Boy and say, _how did you know_ or _are you really here at IU_ or _if you are, why haven’t you found me?_

Robin waits for a while, then asks, “But, what?”

Steve looks up at her and thinks about those moments in movies when the music swells and you know shit’s really about to hit the fan.

Robin raises her eyebrows, impatient. “ _What_ ,” she demands.

“I think he’s psychic,” says Steve. He watches her go through five stages of grief before she replies, resigned,

“This really isn’t _You’ve Got Mail_ anymore, is it?”

*-.*-.*-.

“ _Psychic_?” says Heather, with what’s probably a completely normal level of skepticism. “Not that I don’t believe in psychics,” she qualifies quickly, and next to her, Robin rolls her eyes. “But, um— _why_ do you think that?”

“Yes, Steve,” says Robin. “Can you please, for the love of god, just tell us _why_ now?”

It’s been over eight hours since Steve first dropped the bombshell at Scoops, so he gets her frustration, but he really didn’t want to have to explain this _twice,_ and he wasn’t exactly in the right headspace to talk about it at work. But now he’s eaten dinner and had two shots of tequila, so he’s about as calm as he generally gets.

“Okay,” he says, pacing the length of Heather’s room. “I just want to start by saying, I know this sounds crazy, but just, like, _listen_ , okay? Because I just think—there’s no other explanation for this.”

“Sure,” says Robin, “I _also_ blame most inexplicable things on the supernatural.”

Steve stops and turns to the bed where she’s sitting. “Really?”

“ _No_ ,” says Robin, “because I’m not an idiot. Or, you know, Heather— _ow.”_ She rubs her arm where Heather elbowed her. “Babe—I was _kidding_.” Heather rolls her eyes before she turns back to Steve, much more eager than her girlfriend, her eyes bright.

“It’s okay, Steve. We’re listening, and we have _totally_ open minds.” They both watch as he starts to pace again, following his movement to the door, to the window, and back.

“Okay,” Steve says again. He tells them about that morning, about the knock at the door, the footsteps, the EpiPen, the note. He digs the sticky out from his back pocket, where it’s been all day, and hands it over.

Robin peers at the writing, turns the paper over in her hands, even holds it up to the light like she’s in _CSI_ or something. She gives it to Heather, who traces the small letters with her thumb, her brow furrowed.

“—and then that kid showed up, and almost _died,_ and maybe he would have,” says Steve. “That’s what’s so fucked up. I can’t stop _thinking_ about it. I went and checked the first aid kit after work,” he adds to Robin. “There’s no EpiPen. He really could have died, if I didn’t have one. And we would’ve been right there, watching and not able to do anything. Do you have any idea how much that would have fucked us up?”

“I have a little bit of an idea,” says Robin. Heather puts her arm around Robin’s shoulder, tugs her closer and kisses her temple.

“He’s okay,” she says softly. “You did that.” She looks back at Steve. “He’s okay,” she says again.

“Yeah,” says Steve. “But somebody gave me that pen. And he’s only okay because they did.”

“But why do you think it was Star Boy?” Robin asks. “And not some other local, run-of-the-mill psychic?”

“Because,” says Steve, “it’s not the first time this has happened.”

“What, you’ve saved _lives_ before?”

“No, I mean—this was the most _extreme_ thing that’s ever happened. And he’s never given me anything in person. But he’s warned me about stuff before, told me things that he never could’ve known about, unless—"

“Unless he’s _psychic_ ,” Heather finishes for him, breathless with excitement.

“ _Oh_ my god. Alright, let’s hear it,” says Robin, waving her hand. “Buzzfeed Unsolve it for us.”

Steve paces up and down the room, once, twice, before he works up the nerve to say out loud all the things he’s only ever thought to himself late at night, when he can blame it on exhaustion and the witchy-feeling that comes with 3am.

“Do you remember,” he starts, “the fire at that senior’s place on Halloween? All those kids got burned, and that guy died from smoke inhalation?” They both nod solemnly. It was a pretty big deal—the school was in mourning for weeks. “I was supposed to be at that party. I was going to go, I mean, I really was, but then...” Steve swallows, remembering again the blood-chilling shock he’d felt when he saw the news the next day—how close he’d been to being there.

“But then?” Robin prompts.

Steve shakes himself, keeps pacing. “That morning, star-stuff sent me this really weird message. We’d been chatting for a while, a few weeks, but we weren’t—we didn’t talk as much as we do now. So, it was really weird. He kept going on about different star things, a comet, maybe? I don’t know—some combination of astrology stuff that meant something terrible was going to happen that night. He told me not to go out. But, it’s Halloween, you know? It’s, like, the _best_ night. So, even though it kind of freaked me out, I was still going to go to that party. And then a few hours before it was supposed to start, he just— _begged_ me. _Please don’t go._ That’s what he sent me, just, like, _please don’t go._

“And we didn’t—we weren’t, like, _honest_ with each other, like that, yet. It was the first time he ever seemed to really _care_ about me. And he seemed _really_ worked up about it. So, I didn’t go. I skyped with Dustin and watched _Nightmare on Elm Street_. And the next morning, when I saw what happened, I thought, like, _fuck_ , you know? Maybe there is some truth to this astrology shit.

“But then it just _kept_ happening, and the astrology excuses got weaker and weaker. Like, last semester, I had this really big final presentation, right? Worth half my grade. And a few hours before, Star Boy messaged me and told me to bring an extra shirt to class—he said it was some kind of good luck thing. And I was _really_ fucked for that presentation, and he was right so many times—so I did it. And then, as I was walking into class, this girl spilled her ice coffee all over me. If I hadn’t listened to him, I would’ve had to present for thirty minutes in front of, like, a hundred students with a huge, shit-brown stain on my shirt.”

“But those are just coincidences,” says Robin when he stops to breathe. “The human brain is, like, _programmed_ to see patterns in random stuff. But that’s all it is.”

“It’s _not_ ,” says Steve. “You don’t understand. It happens _all the time._ Like, every few weeks. Heather,” he says, turning to find her face unusually serious. “You believe me, right?”

“I believe you,” she says softly.

“ _Babe_ ,” says Robin, incredulous, but Heather’s already shaking her head.

“No, Rob, I mean it. It’s—it’s happened to me, too,” she says, and doesn’t turn to see Robin’s slack-jawed surprise. She just gets up from the bed and starts to pace Steve’s same track across the floor. Uncertain, Steve moves to take her former spot next to Robin.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, trying to channel Robin’s soft encouragement.

Heather hugs herself as she paces and rubs at her arms like she’s cold. When Steve glances at Robin, something about her expression—sad, worried but patient—triggers his memory, even though he can’t think of a time when she’s looked at him that way.

“I never told you this,” she starts, and Steve knows she’s talking to Robin even though she won’t look at either of them. “But last summer, after we had that fight, I was—” Heather swallows, tugs at a hair tie on her wrist. She just paces for a while. Steve feels a strange déjà vu, knowing Heather was just in this spot on the bed a few minutes ago, watching him go through the same kind of struggle, searching for words and courage.

“I wasn’t in a good place,” she says with finality, like she phrased it a few times in her head and that was the best she came up with. Next to Steve, Robin shifts uneasily. “I was—I just kept thinking about what you said.” Heather finally looks up, and even without his contacts, Steve can see the shine of her eyes, wet with tears.

“Baby—” Robin starts, but Heather shakes her head and races on, like she wants to get it out before she loses her nerve,

“About how I wasn’t being true to myself, and how I wouldn’t be happy until I was. But it just felt like I’d never, _ever_ be brave enough to do that—to come out to _anyone_ , or be _with_ you the way you wanted, the way you _deserve_.”

“Heather—”

“ _No_ , just, just _listen_ to me, okay? I should’ve told you this already. I _want_ to tell you. So, I was just thinking about that, about how you were right, how I’d never be happy, and I thought I _lost_ you, and I just—I felt _awful_ , okay? And. And I know it was stupid and dramatic and cliché, but I just thought maybe it would be better if I just—if I just— _wasn’t here_ anymore.”

Robin’s up from the bed and across the room before Steve can blink. She wraps her arms around Heather’s waist, and Heather curls around her, pressing her face into Robin’s shoulder. Robin murmurs things too soft for Steve to really hear, but he catches snippets— _love you_ and _so glad you’re here._ Steve presses his forehead to his knees and closes his eyes to try to give them some kind of privacy.

After endless minutes, Heather pulls away and wipes at her eyes. She laughs wetly when she spots Steve on the bed. “God, I’m sorry,” she says. “You did not sign up to hear about all my, like, repressed shit.”

“It’s cool,” says Steve, and, surprisingly, he means it. Usually, he gets kind of awkward or annoyed when people cry around him. He never really knows what to do. Now, he just wants to hug Heather and tell her he _gets_ it. “I’m sure you didn’t sign up to get your reality rocked by this supernatural shit either.”

“No,” Heather disagrees. “That’s, like, half the reason I do anything.”

“It’s true,” says Robin, still rubbing at Heather’s back. She kisses the edge of her jaw, swipes her thumb over Heather’s cheek to catch any leftover tears, and then joins Steve on the bed again to give Heather some space. After Robin settles, Steve knocks his shoulder into hers, compelled for some reason to comfort her too. She nudges his shoulder right back.

“Anyway,” Heather says, starting to pace again. “I felt like— _that._ And I didn’t really know what to do. I didn’t want to call a _hotline_ or something, that seemed so… I don’t know. But I’d been following star-stuff for a while, and he always made me laugh, and I’d seen other people mention him in their stories and stuff, saying he really helped them, gave them advice and, like, _changed_ _their lives_. It was 4am, and I hadn’t slept for days, so I was just like, _fuck it_. I sent him this long, _embarrassing_ paragraph about my life and my _issues_ , and our fight, and how everything _sucked_.” She takes a breath before adding, “I told him I didn’t think I had anything to live for, and I asked him if there was a way he could look at my chart and just see if things were gonna get better.

“I didn’t really expect anything back, honestly, but—he messaged me right away. Like, a _minute_ later. He told me that he’d felt like that before, too, and that I wasn’t alone. It sounds cliché, now, I guess, but he was just so— _nice._ We talked for twenty minutes, and he said he could look at my chart, _free of charge_ , you know? He made me _promise_ to— _stick around_ for a few hours while he looked at it. So, I did. And three hours later, he told me that he’d seen really great things for me—that my family might not take it so well,” Heather swallows. “But that everything would work out with the girl I was in love with,” she smiles at Robin, who smiles back.

“He said I’d be happier than I’d ever been before. He said—” Heather stops and stands in front of them, meets both their eyes with a gravity that niggles at Steve’s spine—another one of those moments when the movie music goes crazy. “He said that I’d feel like I did when I was riding, as a kid. I _never_ told him about that. I haven’t ridden in _years_ , not since my family moved to the city. But he was right— _that’s_ how I used to feel when I rode, like I was _free_.

“There’s _no way he could’ve known that_ ,” Heather says slowly, locking eyes with Robin. “Really. It’s not on social media or anything. But he knew, and—it was _exactly_ the right thing to say. It _worked_. I’m here, and he was _right_. You—make me feel like that,” Heather finishes softly, reaching to brush the tips of her fingers over Robin’s cheek. Steve’s chest aches looking at the tears in Robin’s eyes, the tears in Heathers, the easy way Robin reaches to cradle Heather’s hand against her face and kiss her palm.

Steve gives them as long as he can before he has to ask, “Why didn’t you say anything, when we told you about star-stuff?”

Robin moves over so Heather can join them on the bed, and she does, leaning into Robin’s side before she answers, “I just, didn’t want to get into everything again, you know? I didn’t want to admit why I was talking to him in the first place. But I would’ve, really, if I thought it might give you some kind of clue. But I didn’t really learn anything about him. Except…”

“Except what?” says Steve.

“I guess I don’t _really_ know for sure, but I got the impression he was gay, too.”

“I mean, we knew _that,_ ” says Robin wryly, nudging Steve with her elbow.

“No, we _didn’t_ ,” says Steve.

“Steve, please, we all know he’s in love with you, that’s not the mystery at work here, okay?”

“We do _not_ know that, what the fuck—”

“He sent you a _heart_ , Steve, okay? In gay texting that’s practically a proposal—”

“Why haven’t you been teaching me how to text in gay, that seems like a _really_ important thing for me to know, more than that _history_ shit you’ve been trying to quiz me about.”

“Stonewall isn’t _history shit_ , Steve, _everybody_ knows about Stonewall—”

“Guys,” says Heather.

“What,” Robin and Steve say in sync. When they turn to look at her, Heather’s holding up the pink sticky note.

“You’re forgetting the most important part.”

“That Star Boy’s a psychic?” says Robin.

“That he’s _here_ , at IU. He must be.” Heather’s got that same teary look on her face she had when Kathleen Kelly and Joe Fox finally kissed. She smiles so wide her cheeks dimple. “He’s really _here_.”

“Or,” says Robin, “he got somebody to drop it off for him.”

“How?” says Heather, “You know they upped security this year—you have to have an IU card to go anywhere on campus, and you can’t get into a dorm unless you live you there.”

“So, maybe he got somebody else who lives in Steve’s dorm to—”

“ _How_? Even if he somehow figured out which dorm Steve lives in, he’d have to contact somebody else who lives there, too, and that information isn’t public. What’s that thing you always say when I try to prove ghosts are real? _The simplest explanation is the right one? This_ is the simplest explanation. And, anyway, _you_ were the one who said Steve probably knows star-stuff in real life. Why aren’t you more excited? You were _right_.”

“I was right?” Robin looks at Steve, who shrugs. “Oh my god, I was _right_. Holy shit. What if I _am_ God? Wow. This is a lot to process.”

“You think _you_ have a lot to process?” says Steve, who’s using every last bit of willpower he has to keep from texting Star Boy, this instant.

“Wait,” says Robin, ignoring Steve entirely. “Wait, no, listen. This is perfect. Oh, _shit_. This could really work.”

“What,” says Heather, breathless. This mystery gang shit is really getting to their heads, Steve thinks. Sure, to them it’s a fun little adventure, but this is Steve’s _life_ they’re messing with, possibly even the _love_ of his—

“You know that twitchy guy from GSA,” says Robin, “Ralph something?”

“The guy with the eyebrow piercing?” Heather asks.

“Yeah, him—he works in admissions. He’s kind of intense, like very rage-against-the-machine, you know?”

“So?”

“ _So_ —I bet if I asked him, or, or paid him or something, he could hack into the student records and figure out who in Steve’s dorm has a birthday that matches the ones you found.”

“You really figured it out?” Steve asks. He knew Heather was working on the birthday calculations or whatever, but he didn’t she’d _found_ anything yet.

“I narrowed it down to four days,” says Heather, and then she nods. “This is amazing. This could work. We’re really doing this. Are we? Are we really doing this?” Heather and Robin turn to Steve with matching grins, the question hanging in the air.

Steve doesn’t feel any braver than he did the first time he thought about tracking Star Boy down, but— _some_ things are easier to handle. He likes boys, he knows that now—or _a_ boy, at least. He likes a boy who calls him _babe_ and _sunshine_ , who sends him heart emojis and helps him save _lives_. A boy who could be living right under his nose, waiting for him. As much as it terrifies him to imagine a world where they might really meet, and _kiss_ , and do— _other stuff_ —it thrills him, too. It really does feel like something out of a movie, something he’s never thought he’d really get to have.

“Fuck it,” says Steve, meeting their grins with his own. “Let’s do it.”

*-.*-.*-.

Four days later, Steve’s at the library, waiting for Robin at their usual table. They’ve both got midterms next week, but he already knows he won’t be able to get much done today. The sky outside is a cloudless, cartoon blue, and the sun is stark and white, sending strips of blinding light across his laptop screen. Even though Steve knows it’s far below freezing outside, the bright, dewy snow still makes him want to be out in it, not here, in the dusty geology section with windows that don’t even open.

He’s thinking of the hill out by athletic fields, and how easy it would be to steal a tray from the dining hall for a makeshift sled, when Robin finally shows. She sits down heavily across from him, clutching a textbook to her chest. When she doesn’t jump into some rant or other, just sits there and stares at him, Steve asks, “What’s with the face?”

“What face?” says Robin quickly, finally dropping her book onto the table with a _thwack_ that sends a cloud of dust scattering up into the air.

“ _That_ face,” Steve says, gesturing at her general face area. She’s got the same look she had when she asked him to volunteer for the mental health fair—and _that_ didn’t turn out very well, so, it’s worrying, to say the least.

“What,” says Robin, pulling things out of her bag and avoiding his gaze. When she runs out of pens to organize in neat rows, she finally looks up again and adds, defensively, “This is just what my face looks like, Steve!”

“I don’t think so, dingus,” Steve says in his best impression of her. He drops the voice to add, “Seriously, what’s up?” He hopes she hasn’t been fighting with Heather or anything. They’ve pretty much become the only people he really hangs out with anymore, with the exception of Nancy, when she can make time for him. After his whole— _coming to terms with liking boys_ thing, he hasn’t really wanted to see the guys he usually hangs out with. They’re not exactly the most _open-minded_ people.

Finally, Robin sighs dramatically and says, “I’m going to go get you a mocha, because I'm your _best_ friend and I _care_ about you—and while I'm gone, you should think about how great a friend I am and how I would _never_ do anything to hurt or upset you.”

“Okay,” says Steve, not liking where this is going. “That doesn’t make me feel better at all. What the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing! Nothing. Just—wait here.”

So, Steve watches Robin head toward the library café and waits, mind whirling as he tries to come up with reasons for that ominous introduction. It’s got to be something to do with Star Boy, right? Maybe they realized they can’t actually find him—or maybe they tried and there was _no one._ Or, what if there was someone, and he’s _awful_?

After what feels like _years,_ Robin finally comes back, setting a large mocha in front of Steve before she sits and wraps her hands around her own coffee.

“I know you’re a Leo moon,” says Steve, “and that’s why you have to make everything super dramatic, but that was really unnecessary. What the _fuck_ is going on?”

Robin takes a long sip and winces, probably burning her tongue, which— _good_. That’s what she gets for giving Steve a fucking _panic attack_ over what’s probably nothing.

“Okay,” Robin sighs. “You know how we asked Ralph to hack into the student info?”

“He wouldn’t do it?”

“Oh, no, he was totally into it. All I had to do was tell him it was for gay love and he was one-hundred percent down.” Steve rolls his eyes but nods, waiting for Robin to get to the _upsetting_ part. “He was really helpful. Anyway. Okay. So—there were only a few people in your dorm that had birthdays on the days Heather figured out would match Star Boy’s full chart.”

“Okay...”

“And by _a few_ ,” says Robin, playing with her coffee sleeve instead of looking at him. “I mean, uh. One?”

“One,” Steve echoes dumbly. “There’s only _one_ person it could be? In the whole dorm?”

“I know it seems unlikely, but there are only one-hundred and twenty people in your dorm, and the math actually—”

“Dude, you know I don’t give a shit about _math_. Just tell me what the problem is—is it Other Steve? Is it that pedo with the goatee?”

“No...”

“Robin—holy _shit_. Just tell me.”

“Okay! God.” Robin finally stops fiddling with shit and looks at him. “Did you think about how nice I am, and how despite all the jokes, or whatever, I really wouldn’t mess around with this?”

“Yes,” says Steve, his skin buzzing now with impatience. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, I got it. Who _is_ it?”

“Okay—wait, really?”

“Robin!”

Robin glances at the few students scattered around them and then says, softly, with worried eyes, “It’s Billy Hargrove.”

Steve’s ears start ringing faintly, like the aftermath of an explosion. “That’s not funny,” he says.

“I know,” Robin says, still soft, like she doesn’t want to startle him. “I know it isn’t, I wouldn’t joke about this. I know I said all that stuff before, but I really _never_ thought—like, I had _no_ idea. You know that, right? Like, this wasn’t some sort of conspiracy thing. I know what it might look like, with all this shit I said coming true—but I _didn’t know_ , Steve. Okay? I wouldn’t lie about this, and I wouldn’t mess with you like that.”

“You’re serious,” says Steve, uselessly. Of course, she’s serious. Steve’s never seen her look so worried before. But—okay, so, _whatever_ , right? So, Billy Hargrove is the only person with a birthday that matches Star Boy’s—that’s a coincidence, a _mistake_. It _has_ to be.

“There must be something wrong with the calculations,” he says confidently. That’s got to be it.

Robin shakes her head. “When I told Heather, she did some more research, ran the charts of everyone in your dorm who’s an Aries. It’s not perfect, I guess, because she can’t know for sure that they were born in the same place they graduated from, but—”

“That’s it, then,” says Steve, his chest loosening a little. It’s not like this is an _exact science_. They just made a mistake.

“There are nineteen Aries in your dorm,” Robin goes on, “and they were _all_ from Indiana, or Michigan.”

“So?”

“All of them,” says Robin, “except Billy.” When Steve just stares at her blankly, Robin explains, “You know Star Boy was born in San Francisco.”

“Yeah.”

Robin looks at him sadly. “Billy’s from San Francisco, Steve. To be honest, he might be, like, the only student in our entire _year_ from California.”

“No,” says Steve, “No, Billy Hargrove’s from L.A.—” But now that he actually thinks about it, he can’t remember how he knows that. _Somebody_ told him, but not Billy himself. It’s not like they’ve ever spoken, really. Except—except at the fair, when Steve yelled at him.

“He’s not,” Robin says. “Heather did some more digging on him, too. They’re friends, you know, but not that close or anything, so she looked around online. There’s not much. He doesn’t have Facebook or anything, but she found his high school. He’s _from_ San Francisco.”

“It _can’t_ be him, Robin,” says Steve, thinking of the fair again, the angry, hard line of Billy’s mouth, the coldness in his eyes, when he said _not even that, huh._ “He _hates_ me.”

“Steve,” Robin says, condescendingly soft.

“ _No_ ,” he snaps, knowing she doesn’t deserve it, but—he can feel his heart in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. This morning, star-stuff called him _pretty boy,_ told him not to stress so much, sent him a picture of Harry Styles surrounded by hearts. Star Boy’s the only person in the _whole_ _world_ Steve’s told about his secret One Direction playlist. Steve trusts him more than anyone. He _can’t_ be Billy Hargrove. He just can’t.

“I know _you_ don’t like Billy,” says Robin. “But, have you ever even _talked_ to him? How do you know _he_ doesn’t like _you_?”

Steve shakes his head. “You didn’t hear him at the fair. He was such an _asshole_ , and I—” Steve cuts himself off. He didn’t tell Robin or Heather about what he said that day, mostly because it still fills him with shame. Billy’s an asshole, but Steve is too, and so far, it seems like Robin and Heather haven’t really noticed yet. Steve wants to keep it that way for as long as he can.

“What did he do? You just said he left.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, shifting his coffee cup around in his hands. “He was just being—a _dick_ , about stuff. Like, about me being there, at the booth, when I'm not— _you know_.” He raises an eyebrow at Robin, hoping she gets it. He’s still not so good about saying that shit out loud, especially not in public. Robin nods encouragingly, so Steve goes on, “So, I, uh. I sort of. Told him? About me.”

“You _came out_ to _Billy Hargrove_?” Robin asks, way, _way_ too loudly.

“ _Shut the fuck up!_ ” Steve shouts in a whisper.

“ _Sorry!_ Sorry,” says Robin, whispering now too. “I’m just— _wow_. Good for you, dude. He’s got no right to be a gate-keeping asshole, especially when he’s representing the GSA.” She frowns. “Don’t worry, I’ll rip him a new one.”

“No, you will not do that,” says Steve. “Seriously. I don’t need you to fight my gay battles for me, or whatever, and _especially_ not this one. I sort of did that already anyway.” Robin raises an eyebrow, so Steve says, “I told him I had the same right to be there that he did.” Robin smiles at that. “And, uh. I called him a superficial hipster douchebag and told him to go back to L.A.”

“He’s not from L.A.,” says Robin unhelpfully, and then, “ _Superficial hipster douchebag_ —I mean. You’re not wrong.”

“ _Thank_ you. See? He _can’t_ be Star Boy.” Robin nods slowly, her brow furrowed. Steve knows she doesn’t like a problem she can’t solve.

“What did he say?” she asks after a few minutes. Steve’s been scrolling through his chat with star-stuff, trying and failing to imagine Billy Hargrove typing out _make sure to nap today babe._ It’s just not possible.

“Huh?”

“What did Billy say, when you told him you were—” She waves her hand that same way she did when she told Nancy she was gay. Steve wonders if it’s some kind of secret code or something.

Steve shrugs. “He didn’t say anything. I don’t know—I guess he looked surprised? I kind of just yelled it at him all at once and then he—” Steve tries to picture Billy’s face, but all he can remember is staring at Billy just _sitting_ there and thinking, _get up, get up and fight me_.

“What?” Robin asks.

“He looked kind of stunned, I guess,” says Steve. “And then he said—” What was it? “He said he didn’t know why he was here.”

“At the fair?”

Steve shakes his head. “At IU. I kind of _implied_ he shouldn’t be here, if he hates Indiana so much, and he said I was right.”

“Huh,” says Robin. “It _is_ pretty random. I wonder if Heather knows why he came here.”

They slip into silence again, and Steve makes a half-hearted effort to take notes, but mostly just ends up doodling planets and stars along the edge of his notebook.

“Anyway, it’s on you now,” says Robin ten minutes later, picking up the conversation like it never ended.

“What,” says Steve.

Robin rolls her eyes, like he should be quicker on the update. “Heather’s done her part with the birthdays, and I coerced Ralph. It’s your turn to pick up the slack, do some digging.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Uh, duh? You have to find out more about Billy—apologize, talk to him, hang out or whatever. See if he could really be Star Boy.”

“Uh, no? _Absolutely_ not.” Robin just stares at him with that same expectant smile. “No. _Robin_. Are you crazy? I _hate_ him.”

“Steve, as your best friend, I’m telling you this out of love. You _don’t_ hate him. This _rivalry_ you have with Billy is built on nothing but _assumptions_ and _jealousy_ , and, honestly, some unresolved sexual tension I think you should really work out, even if he isn’t Star Boy. It’s not healthy.”

Steve flounders for a minute or two, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to wrap his mind around the _dumbest, most offensive_ thing Robin has ever dared to say to his face.

“Stripped of your best friend title,” he says when he can find words. “Shunned, Dwight Schrute style. Don’t speak to me for five years.”

“Steve—”

“I _can’t_ hear you.”

“Okay,” says Robin, sighing in frustration and finally flipping the cover of her textbook open, forty-five minutes after showing up. “Whatever. It’s _your_ love life, dude. I just think this is the best lead we have. And, you know, Heather _likes_ Billy. I asked her about him, when Ralph gave us the names. She’s a pretty good judge of character, and she spends hours with him at work every week. She says he’s funny, and smart. I just think you should give him a chance. If nothing else, don’t you think you’d be less exhausted if you got rid of _one_ of your rivals?”

“No,” says Steve. “I’m a Leo. I thrive off of rivalries.”

“Okay,” Robin says again, sighing more. “Discussion tabled. Let’s just—study.”

Five minutes later, when Robin drops her pen for the fifth time, trying unsuccessfully to get it to spin over her fingers, Steve says, “You want to go sledding with lunch trays?”

“Yes,” says Robin, shoving scattered highlighters and notebooks into her bag with a sweep of her arm.

Steve grins and follows after her, glad to leave any thoughts of Billy Hargrove in the dark halls as they make their way out into the freezing sunlight.

*-.*-.*-.

Robin bugs Steve the whole next week about talking to Billy. She sends him daily articles on conflict resolution and making amends, and memes about _enemies to lovers slowburn,_ whatever the fuck _that’s_ supposed to mean.

He’d be lying if he said she wasn’t getting to him at least a little—he _was_ an asshole after all. It’s not like he wants to be _friends_ with the guy, because Billy is _not_ Star Boy, but maybe it'd be easier to forget about the whole thing if Steve just apologized.

The opportune moment comes on Thursday. Steve and Robin are back at the library, cramming for exams. Even though it’s nearing eleven, they’re far from alone—every table, chair, couch, and corner is filled with equally screwed students trying to learn half a semester’s material in a single night.

They’re in line at the café for a much-needed caffeine hit, Steve quizzing Robin from actual _paper flashcards_ she made, when Robin suddenly elbows him, hard enough to send half the cards fluttering in different directions.

“ _Fucker_ ,” Steve swears. “I am _not_ picking those up.”

“ _Look_ ,” Robin hisses. Steve ignores the fallen cards to follow her unsubtle gesturing. He shouldn’t be surprised when he spots Billy Hargrove at a table in the far corner of the café. His gaze is locked on his laptop screen, his long legs stretched out under the empty chair across from him. He’s got huge, pink Beats on, a red pen trapped between his teeth, and his purple sweatpants are tucked into his stupid Doc Martins—like that’s even a _look._ Steve recognizes the pants from orientation—they say _Threat to National Security_ across the ass. Steve _hates_ him. 

“No,” he says, before Robin can start on her usual tirade.

“ _Steven_ ,” she starts anyway. “It’s the season of kindness.”

“It’s March,” says Steve.

“It’s _midterm_ _season_ ,” Robin argues. “When _all_ students are united in panic, exhaustion, and mild-to-severe depression.”

“And that’s relevant because?”

“ _Because_ ,” says Robin, “you can be _nice_ , and he won’t think it’s weird. He’s probably sleep-deprived. You can catch him off-guard—maybe he’ll slip up and reveal his secret, psychic identity.”

“ _No_ , he won’t,” says Steve, finally crouching to gather the scattered flashcards. When he stands again, Robin’s arms are crossed, and she’s doing an admirable job imitating Heather’s patented _disapproving glare_. She takes the cards back from him before she demands,

“ _Apologize_.”

And then she _pushes_ him in Billy’s direction, hard and sudden enough to send Steve tumbling into the nearest table. His foot catches on a chair, and it falls, _loudly_ , making every student in a twenty-foot radius turn and stare at him—including Billy. Steve catches his eyes by accident, but Billy flicks his gaze away immediately, back to his laptop, a faint flush pinking his cheeks. Steve guesses he'd be embarrassed, too, if he had to look at the guy who called him a _superficial hipster douchebag._

As pissed as he is about Robin’s _unsubtle_ tactics, she’s not entirely wrong. He really _should_ apologize—it would make _him_ feel better at the very least—and, right now, it probably wouldn’t even rank in the top five strangest things to happen to Billy this week. It _is_ midterms after all—it's amazing how little the student body cares about acting like normal human beings when they’re operating on two hours of sleep for days in a row.

So, with one last glare at Robin—who gives him a cheery thumbs up—Steve shuffles slowly in Billy’s direction. It’s only when he’s standing in front of Billy’s table that he realizes he probably should have tried to come up with something to say before he actually got over here.

Billy keeps staring obliviously at his laptop. Through the Beats, Steve can hear a tinny, rhythmic bass, probably loud enough to cover Steve’s attempt at subtle coughing. Trying to channel his new motto— _fuck it_ —Steve takes a breath and waves a hand in front of Billy’s face to get his attention.

Billy jumps, startled, and yanks his headphones off to hang around his neck. When he blinks up at Steve, his eyes are bleary and red, and it seems to take him a few seconds to focus. Maybe Robin _is_ right—maybe he’ll reveal something groundbreaking. He looks _exhausted_.

“Uh,” says Steve. He gestures awkwardly at the chair across from Billy. “Can I sit for a second?”

Billy stares at Steve for long beat before his gaze sweeps the café around them. Steve turns to see what he does, and they both catch Robin, wide-eyed, as she turns around quickly to stare at a random poster.

Billy blinks back at Steve and asks, his voice rough with disuse, “You—want the chair?”

“No, I...” Steve trails off, his thoughts stumbling as Billy rubs his knuckles into his eyes. His nails are painted dark purple. There are freckles dotting his eyelids. Steve didn’t realize you could get freckles there.

He shakes himself after an over-long moment, trying to remember why he came over here. Maybe _he’s_ too sleep-deprived for this, too. Finally, he just takes Billy’s bewildered silence as permission and sits, his boots knocking awkwardly into Billy’s under the table.

“I just wanted to say sorry,” Steve starts. Billy stays silent, his eyes wide. “For what I said, at the fair. I was having a shitty day, and I was— _nervous_ , I guess.” Steve plays with his fingers in his lap, stares at the back of Billy’s laptop so he doesn’t have to look at his face. “Being at the booth, and everything. It was just _a lot_ , and—whatever. It’s not an excuse. I was an asshole, and I’m sorry.” When Steve finally looks back at Billy, he’s staring at Steve like he’s never seen him before.

“Uh.” Billy coughs before going on, “Yeah, um. Thank you? And I’m—sorry, too.” He closes his laptop so he can see Steve better. Something about that makes Steve’s face burn, knowing this is, like, a _real_ conversation now, that he has Billy’s full attention. “I shouldn’t have, like, _assumed_ shit about you,” Billy adds, his voice low, like he’s making sure no one overhears.

“It’s cool,” says Steve quickly.

“It’s not,” Billy frowns, “It was shitty, and you were right. You have every right to be part of the club and everything, even if you _weren’t_ —I was just being—” he cuts himself off and stares out the darkened window. The glare on the glass makes it more like a mirror, and when Steve turns to look, too, he meets Billy’s eyes in the reflection. Billy looks away, his face flushing again. Something in Steve’s stomach flips over—probably his last coffee mixing badly with the Doritos he scarfed down ten minutes ago.

“I was having a bad day, too,” Billy finishes with a shrug. His eyes are clearer when he finally looks at Steve head-on. They’re very blue, which isn’t something Steve’s noticed before. The harsh light in the café just makes them brighter, that’s all—hard to ignore.

“So,” says Steve quickly, trying to shake the weird feeling settling in his gut. “We’re cool?”

Billy’s lips quirk up at the edges. “Yeah,” he says, his voice still low. “We’re cool.”

“Cool,” Steve echoes. It’s time to get up, he thinks. He should go back to Robin, tell her he apologized, and finally start studying. Except Billy doesn’t open his laptop, doesn’t pull his headphones back on, doesn’t give Steve any kind of signal to leave. He just stares. His eyes are very blue.

“Have you started on the essay for Johnson’s class?” says somebody, and it’s only when Billy blinks in surprise that Steve realizes it was _him,_ which is weird because he definitely didn’t tell his mouth to say that.

“Kind of,” Billy says, tapping on his laptop with his nails. He grins wryly and adds, “And, uh, by that I mean I've stared at my outline a lot.”

Steve smiles back reflexively and huffs. “Yeah, me too. Except I don’t really have an outline—so.”

“So, just the staring,” Billy grins.

Steve laughs. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Billy smiles down at his tapping fingers. The light catches at sparkles in his nail polish.

“You’re pretty good at, like, writing and stuff,” says Steve, like an idiot. His brain has checked out, clearly, and his legs don’t seem to work, since he’s still sitting here for no reason. When Billy looks up at him curiously, Steve adds, “I mean, cause Johnson sent around your essay as an example, or whatever.”

Steve was so furious when he got that handout and saw the poorly blacked out name across the top. Of fucking course, it was Billy Hargrove’s paper—that stupid overachiever. Except, now, watching Billy scoff and rub at his face subconsciously, Steve doesn’t feel angry. Just strange still, and nervous, even though he already apologized.

“Fuck,” Billy mutters, glaring down at the tabletop. “I hate that shit. He didn’t even ask me.”

“Still,” says Steve, wishing inexplicably that Billy would look up again. “It was really good.”

“Yeah?” Billy says, his voice soft. He looks up.

Steve’s palms are sweating. “Yeah,” he says. And then, for _no reason_ , “Maybe you could, uh, help me with mine? I mean, it’s due in two days, so I’m pretty fucked. I could use any help I could get. And you’re—um. You’re good at it.” Steve wishes he got his coffee _before_ he came over here, so he could have something tangible to do, like take a sip, instead of staring at his lap and wishing he were dead.

“Yeah,” says Billy roughly, and Steve looks up in time to catch him biting his lip. He coughs and goes on, “Yeah, sure. I could, um. I could read over what you have.”

“I don’t even have an outline, remember?” says Steve. “Like I said, fucked.”

When Billy laughs, it’s mostly silent, and his shoulders shudder inward, like he’s trying to hide it. “Yeah, I guess you're fucked. But, maybe, I could help you get started?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Billy. “Of course. I mean—it’s no problem.”

“You aren’t, like, slammed with midterm stuff?”

“Nah, I only have essays, and I finished most of them. Johnson’s is my last one.”

“Cool, so, we can, like, work on them together. Or something,” says Steve, smoothly, because he’s not nervous. He’s totally chill, he thinks, wiping his palms off on his jeans.

“Sure,” says Billy. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s good,” says Steve, unthinking, because that’s pretty much par for course. “Except—I have an exam in the morning. But maybe like, after noon?”

“I start work at one,” Billy says with a frown. “And I don’t get off till four.”

“Five, then?” says Steve, committed now, even though none of this makes any sense.

“Yeah, that works,” says Billy.

“And I can get you dinner, after,” says Steve’s mouth, independent of his body and mind. “I mean, like, as a thank you. Because I really, um, appreciate it.”

“Okay,” Billy says slowly, blinking wide again, which is fair. This is all very surprising, for both of them.

“Cool,” says Steve. “Um, we can meet here, if that works?”

“Yeah,” Billy says faintly. Steve wonders if Billy’s going into shock. Steve feels like maybe _he’s_ going into shock.

“Cool,” he says again. Then the screaming chaos of his mind finally calms enough for him to remember how legs work. He stands and knocks on the table decisively, like a _dad_ or something. “I’ll see you then.”

“See you,” says Billy, and then Steve weaves his way out of the café as fast as humanly possible. He doesn’t even care if it looks like he’s running for his life. He is.

He nearly trips over his own feet as he cuts the corner too sharply, and he would’ve if it weren’t for two familiar hands gripping at his shoulders. When Steve looks up, Robin’s grin is wider and brighter than anything he’s ever seen before, which is really saying something. It must hurt her cheeks.

“What _happened_ ,” she breathes, thrilled. "You were talking _forever._ ”

“Robin,” says Steve, still incapable of higher thought. His heart is beating like he just ran a marathon.

Robin is still talking, “—wanted to go over there, in case you were crashing and burning, but then I saw you laughing, and then _he_ was laughing, and I was like _oh, shit_ , and I tried to watch from behind the bookshelf, but—”

“Robin,” says Steve again. “I need you to slap me.”

That finally gets Robin to pause in her rant. “Why,” she says, suspicious. “What did you do?”

“I think my brain is broken.”

“What did you _do_?”

“I—” Steve tries to replay the whole conversation in his head, but it feels like a dream, slipping away the harder he tries to remember it.

“ _Steve_. I need _details_.”

“Oh, god,” says Steve. It’s like he was possessed, and now he’s finally remembering all the things his body did without him.

“What,” Robin demands.

“I think I maybe, sort of—” Robin nods expectantly. “ _Accidentally_. Asked him out,” Steve finishes. 

Robin blinks once, twice, before her mouth drops open. “ _Oh_ —” she starts.

“It was an _accident_ —”

“ _My_ —”

“I didn’t _mean_ to—”

“ _God_ ,” Robin finishes, her eyes sparkling with glee.

“Honestly, it’s really nothing,” Steve says, frantic to convince her, and also himself, because this is bad, he didn’t want this. How did this happen? “Really, I just—asked him to help me with my paper, and then, somehow, I don’t know, the only time that worked for both of us was like, five tomorrow, so I said I would get him dinner after, as a thank you! That’s perfectly normal, _platonic_ behavior. Right? It is!”

Robin pinches her lips together like she’s trying to smother another cheek-splitting grin, but she’s not doing a very good job. “So, let me, just, make sure I have this right. You asked him to help you study, on a Friday night, and then told him that you wanted to get dinner and _thank him_ after? This, to a boy that you _know_ is gay, from you, who _he_ knows is _also_ into boys.”

“Oh, god,” says Steve.

“I hate to break this to you, kid,” says Robin. “But I think you got yourself a date.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Steve says again. “I can’t do that. What about Star Boy? He’s _psychic_ , he’ll _know_.”

“Not to bring up another snag,” says Robin, hesitantly, her grin finally dimming a little. “But you also _have_ _a_ _girlfriend_.”

“Oh, _shit_ , Nancy,” says Steve. He frankly forgot about her, along with everything else he’s ever known. “Oh, this is bad. This is really bad. I can’t do this. I need to go back and make sure he knows it’s _not_ a date.”

He starts to head toward the café, but Robin grabs his t-shirt and hauls him back. “ _Don’t_ do that, you’ll look like a fool.”

“I _am_ a fool! Clearly!”

“You’re just a boy,” says Robin sweetly, smacking his cheek lightly with her palm. “You’re just a dumb, gay boy, which makes life very difficult for you. _But_. I am here to help. We’re going to fix this.”

“ _How_ ,” says Steve.

“I don’t know yet, but we’ll figure it out,” says Robin, tugging her phone out of her pocket and swiping it open.

“What are you doing,” Steve asks when Robin starts to make a call. Maybe there’s, like, a gay crisis hotline for when you’re in love with a boy and have a girlfriend and also asked out some random third person for no reason.

“Calling Heather,” says Robin. “She’s gonna freak.”

“Oh, god,” says Steve into his hands, wishing the ground would really just swallow him up.

“Babe!” he hears Robin say. “Wake up—you're never gonna believe this.”

*-.*-.*-.

“Shut up!” Steve laughs, barely avoiding choking on his coke. “That’s _not_ what happened.”

Across the table, Billy grins, chewing obnoxiously around the straw of his own soda. “That’s exactly what happened,” he says.

“ _No_ ,” Steve insists. “ _Fisher_ was one who threw the keg out the window. Wilko was passed out already.”

“No fucking way.” Billy rolls his eyes, using his straw to point at Steve. “Fisher was hooking up with that girl with the pink hair. And Wilko didn’t pass out until _after_ the cops showed up, I remember cause I was telling him to put his fucking _pants_ back on when we heard the sirens.”

Steve laughs again, his stomach panging with the effort. He hasn’t laughed this much since—Christmas, probably, when he was home with Dustin.

Billy smirks down at his empty glass, stirring at the ice. “It’s sad, but orientation was probably, like, the craziest time I've had at IU.”

“Really?”

Billy nods and shifts, his smile dimming a little. “I don’t really, uh. Go out that much.”

“So, you’re a nerd,” says Steve, mostly to get Billy to glare at him, and he does.

“At least I’m not a _jock_ ,” says Billy, looking over Steve’s Hawkins High varsity sweatshirt like it offends him.

“Hey,” says Steve, looking down too. The red fabric is worn from too many washes. “That’s _former_ jock, to you.”

Billy quirks an eyebrow. “Is that _better_?”

Something about Billy’s expression tickles Steve, and he can barely get out, “It’s probably worse,” before he’s laughing again. He tries to catch his breath, watching the way Billy’s earrings sparkle in the fading sun. They send beams of scattered light over the table when Billy’s shoulders shake. Steve thought Billy laughed quietly, but it must’ve been the library, exams, lack of sleep. Now, at Applebee's on a Friday night, he’s so loud, the people in the next booth keep glaring over at them. Even that makes a smile tug at Steve’s lips, unbidden.

It must be taking his last midterm this morning, or the whole weekend ahead, or the endless apps and soda refills, but Steve feels— _buoyant_.

“What,” says Billy, smiling at him funny. Steve’s not sure how long he’s been staring.

“Nothing,” he says and knocks his empty glass against Billy’s. “Another?”

“Hell, yeah,” Billy says around a grin. Steve wonders if he feels the same buzz under his skin. It’s like running through high grass in summer, like driving down a long, straight road, with no one else for miles.

Like being free, Steve thinks.

Just then, Billy tugs the tie from his bun, and his hair falls in tangled curls around his shoulders. He runs his fingers through the knots, the smell of his shampoo hitting Steve all at once—sweet, like vanilla and peaches.

Steve’s throat catches. His heart jumps, too loud, in his chest. _Oh,_ he thinks, digging his fingers into his jeans _._

Oh, _shit._

*-.*-.*-.

“Steve,” says Heather, surprised, when he knocks on her door, hours later.

“Is Robin here,” Steve asks, trying to peer around her into the room.

“Yeah, what—” but Steve’s already pushing past her. He’s more than a little drunk at this point, and also his life is ruined, so he thinks the rudeness is excusable.

“What’s wrong,” says Robin, sitting up from where she was curled under Heather’s blankets.

“My life is ruined,” Steve whines, flopping face first onto the bed beside her. A hand threads through his hair.

“What did you do now?”

Steve rolls over to breathe, and to stare at Heather’s ceiling—all those stars.

“I _like_ him,” Steve says miserably.

“We knew that,” says Heather, glancing at Robin. But Robin’s watching Steve, and he sees the exact moment she clues, realizes which _him_ Steve means.

“Uh, oh,” she says softly.

Steve turns over again to groan into the duvet. Yeah, _uh, oh_. That about sums it up.

*-.*-.*-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please reach out to someone if you're ever thinking of suicide. I've been there too, babes, but you'll make it through this. You can call 1-800-273-8255 or go to suicide.org for a list of non-U.S. numbers. And you can always message me on tumblr <3 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	7. Do You Want Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy thinks Max hates Steve, a little, for making Billy so miserable all those years, so sick with grief and longing. It’s Billy's fault, really. He never told her about the good parts, the shimmery gold of Steve’s happiness, the lavender spark of his laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad no one's commented yet that Billy seems OOC, but if you ever thought so, my defense would be that this is how I think Billy would be if he had empathetic, psychic powers and a happy home life with people who love him. Enjoy some Hargrove-Mayfield family time. I hope you're all staying safe, and thank you to everyone who's read and commented!

_I guess I love you and I don’t know what to do about it / Have a heart and be up front about it / Do you want me or not? / You’re the one thing I’d die if I never got / Do you want me or not?_

“ _Do You Want Me” – Skyline Motel_

“Oh, _boohoo_ ,” says Max from the table, where she’s busy gluing random shit to a piece of cardboard. Jinx watches by her elbow, his tail swishing dangerously as he eyes the cotton puffballs. “The boy you’ve been in love with for over a decade won’t stop _texting_ you,” Max goes on, sarcastic. “Your life is _so hard_.”

Billy glares in her direction from his spot prone on the couch. He had such a long fucking flight, and all he wants is to chill out and watch TV in peace. So, of course, Max has to be in some kind of _mood_.

“Why are you being such a bitch,” he shoots back, willing Jinx to take a swipe at her stupid art project. A moment later, he does, tapping a lightning-quick paw at the container of craft shit, sending beads and glitter scattering over the tabletop and onto the floor.

“Billy!” Max shouts, standing up from the table in shock. When she takes in the mess, she throws her glue stick down in frustration, and Jinx bolts, his now-sparkly paws spreading glitter to the chair, to the rug, to the couch. He settles eventually, taking refuge on Billy’s chest, butting his head against Billy’s chin.

“Don’t _throw_ shit at him,” Billy snaps, rubbing a calming hand over Jinx’s back.

“I _wasn’t_ ,” Max snaps back. “He’s always in the way! Why don’t you just take him back to _Indiana,_ so he’ll leave me _alone_.” She stomps away, and moments later Billy hears her heavy footsteps on the stairs and then the loud slam of her door. He huffs, hoping Susan yells at her for that. _He’s_ never allowed to slam doors.

Susan appears just then from the kitchen, her eyebrow arched. Billy rolls his eyes in response, ignoring the silent question to focus on scratching the spot behind Jinx’s ear that makes him purr like a motorboat.

“What crawled up her ass,” he mutters, but Jinx just blinks in slow contentment and doesn’t answer.

“She missed you,” says Susan after she gets the broom to start sweeping up some of the mess. Max should do that, Billy thinks, but he doesn’t want to mention it in case Max blames in on Jinx and then _Billy_ will have to do it.

“Yeah, well,” he says, playing absently with Jinx’s tail. “She has a weird way of showing it.”

Susan hums but doesn’t offer anything else. Billy gets almost five minutes of peace before Susan comes to sit on the arm of couch by Billy’s head.

“She’s a teenager,” she murmurs, picking up the conversation where they left off. She smooths a hand over Billy’s hair before doing the same to Jinx, who presses up into her palm, purring loudly again. Susan smiles down at him and says, “She’s gotten used to being the only one here to boss us around. Give her some time to readjust, okay?” she adds to Billy.

He grunts and waits for Susan to wander back into the kitchen before he fishes his phone out of his pocket. Jinx chirps at being disturbed, so Billy kisses his forehead and says, “Sorry, J.” He snaps a photo while Jinx is still looking, capturing his expression of pure disdain before he curls up in a tight ball, offended.

Billy snorts, about to pull up his messages to send Steve the photo when he pauses and flicks over to Instagram instead. Hasn’t star-stuff already mentioned Jinx? Billy’s not sure, but it’s better to be safe.

This double-identity shit has really been wearing him down, the last few weeks. If Billy thought his life was pathetic and miserable _before_ Steve knew he existed, it was only because he had no idea how complicated and anxiety-inducing _this_ would be—juggling _two_ identities and twice as many messages from Steve a day, which borders on too many even for Billy.

He has to keep an ongoing record of what shit belongs to which version of himself. Like, did star-stuff already tell Steve that he loves dark chocolate, or that he hates Coke but likes Pepsi? Was it Billy who said that he goes to the gym when he can’t sleep, that he has a sister named Max, who sucks ass but is also his best friend? He makes sure to write it all down now—which is exhausting, _ridiculous_ , and probably not even worth it anyway.

Billy thinks about that constantly, how _pointless_ it all is. So, what if Steve likes boys. So, what if he doesn’t hate Billy anymore. So, what if he calls star-stuff _babe_ now, too, or has _twice,_ anyways. _So, what_. At the end of the day, Steve still has a girlfriend, and even if he didn’t, even if, sometimes, when they’re hanging out, Billy catches Steve looking at him, so sad and serious, like maybe he—

None of it matters. None of it means Steve will _ever_ love Billy the way Billy loves Steve.

Just then, like he willed it, Billy’s phone buzzes:

**Steve Harrington**

Hey did you land ok?

Despite himself, Billy smiles, warming always at Steve’s worried affection. It hits him harder, now, when Steve sends it to _him,_ to _Billy._ Sometimes, he lets himself pretend they’ve been friends this whole time and not just the past two weeks.

**Me**

yeah got home an hour ago

are you home yet?

Billy’s about to switch over to Instagram when Steve’s stupid profile pic—a too-close selfie of mostly his nose—takes over the screen. Fingers tingling with shock, Billy accepts the call.

“Hey,” says Steve. “Sorry to just, like, call you, but I figured it was faster.” He sounds breathless, but happy, and Billy’s heart pangs, picturing Steve’s eyes, lit with joy.

“What’s up,” says Billy, forcing his voice to stay calm, casual.

Steve laughs, more of a giggle, and Billy’s breath shudders in his chest. “I’m at the airport,” Steve says in a rush. “It’s super last minute, but like—Heather’s aunt lives in Miami, and I guess they haven’t talked in a while? But Heather found out the reason her aunt’s been, like, estranged from the family is the same reason _Heather’s_ not allowed home anymore, and they had this big reunion call thing. Anyway, her aunt invited her to visit for spring break, and she said it was okay for her to bring friends, too, so. I guess I'm going to Miami.” He laughs again, thrilled. Billy can picture his cheeks dimpled out, flushed with pink. “It’s so sick. I mean, Hawkins in March is so cold and awful, and all my friends would be in school anyway, so this is so much better.”

“Cause you’re only friends with middle schoolers?” Billy teases, knowing Steve will roll his eyes.

“They’re in _high school_ , actually?”

“Oh, _sorry_ , dude, my mistake.”

“Yeah, get it right.” Steve laughs again, just puffs of air. Billy wishes he could fall asleep _right now_ and dream of Steve’s excitement, feel the sweet, soda pop buzz of it beneath his skin.

“So,” says Steve, and Billy can hear the way he settles somewhere, maybe sitting down. “What are your plans?”

“I’m doing it, man,” says Billy, stretching out along the sofa for emphasis, even though Steve can’t see him. Jinx uncurls at the movement and blinks up at Billy, the murder in his eyes making Billy huff out a laugh.

“Sorry, dude,” he murmurs, rubbing a finger under Jinx’s chin.

“Hmm?” Steve hums in question.

“Nothing. Just talking to my—mom,” Billy stutters, remembering at the last second that he probably shouldn’t mention Jinx.

Steve laughs. “You call your mom _dude_?”

“I call everyone dude,” Billy says defensively. He’s about to ask more about Steve’s trip, but Max chooses _now_ to thunder down the stairs and sweep into the room, a glare already fixed on her face. It falls away in surprise, though, when she sees Billy on the phone. He’s _never_ on the phone—it's not like he has any friends.

“ _Who is it,”_ Max mouths at Billy.

“ _Fuck off,_ ” he mouths back.

“Is that Steve,” Max nearly-shouts, smirking, that bitch. Billy grabs the pillow from behind his head and heaves it at her. She dodges easily, laughing.

“Who’s that?” says Steve.

“No one,” says Billy, glaring at Max, who just grins back and shouts,

“Hi, Steve!”

“Is that your mom?” Steve asks, delighted. “Tell her I say hi.”

“It’s my idiot sister,” says Billy, poking a disgruntled Jinx until he slips off his chest, and then lunging at Max, who darts to put the table between them.

“ _I’m gonna kill you_ ,” he mouths. She gives him the finger in response, and he grabs a handful of ribbons from her project and flings them at her.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Steve says absently, as Max dodges and sprints to take cover in the kitchen.

Billy almost trips over Jinx as he races after her, and by the time he makes it to the kitchen, Max is cowering behind her mom. Susan sends Billy a truly unimpressed look.

“You two are cleaning up that mess,” she says, turning back to the stove already, used to their antics.

“I won’t have a sister for long,” Billy says to Steve darkly, looking around for something else to throw at Max. Steve laughs again, and the warm sound of it distracts Billy just long enough for Max to duck out of his reach and grab a surprised Jinx from the floor. She backs towards the door, holding Billy’s cat out between them like a shield.

“Drop him,” Billy growls and Max does. Jinx howls in such dramatic distress that Billy has to check to make sure he’s okay, giving Max enough time to make her escape back upstairs.

“Don’t think this is over, shit stain!” Billy shouts after her. Susan swats at him lightly with a dish towel.

“No swearing in the house,” she says. She scoops Jinx up from the floor and hands him to Billy, adding, “And no cats in the kitchen when I’m cooking. Can you behave until dinner? I’ll clean my things out of your room after we eat, and then you can retreat in peace, okay?”

“I don’t retreat,” Billy mutters as he heads back into the den, still holding the phone with one hand, and Jinx in the other.

“I’m sure you’re very brave,” Steve teases, enjoying this too much.

“Don’t you have a flight to catch,” Billy feigns at annoyance. He could never really be mad when Steve’s voice is so light, carefree in a way it rarely ever is.

Steve hums. “It’s delayed. So, you told your sister about me?”

“Hmm?” Billy pretends not to understand, cursing Max even more. He’s going to _kill_ her. He’s going to put dye in her shampoo and steal all her nail polish.

“She knew my name,” Steve explains, and Billy hears the grin in his voice.

“She just—calls everyone that,” Billy says, too busy thinking of Steve’s smile to come up with a reasonable excuse.

“She calls everyone Steve?” Steve laughs, “And you call everyone dude. Must be a pretty interesting time at your house.”

“Never a dull moment,” Billy agrees, plopping Jinx on the window seat so they can both look out at the garden. He’s missed everything so much—the old tree, his plants, even Mrs. Adler's puke green shutters across the way.

“Sounds nice,” Steve murmurs softly. Billy thinks of Steve’s mansion of a home, the endless empty rooms. When he was a kid, Steve used to sing to himself when he was lonely, listening to the way his voice echoed through the long halls.

“You should come visit some time.” The words are out of Billy’s mouth before he can stop them, and then he stills, caught between wanting to play if off as a joke and wanting, so badly, to have Steve here with him—his favorite person in his favorite place.

“Really?” Steve’s surprise is the good kind, Billy can tell—in dreams, it tastes like lemon-lime, cold and bright like a rocket pop. “I’ve never been to California.”

“You’d like it,” Billy says, trying to pretend like he hasn’t thought about that, every day, for years, how much Steve would love it here—the sky, the beach, the buildings. He’d love Billy’s bedroom, the stars tacked to his ceiling, the color of his walls. When Steve was twelve, he begged his parents to let him paint his room, with no luck. That same summer, Billy hunted through every hardware store in the city until he found a green called _sweet honeydew._ He’s kept the color ever since, just in case.

“What’s it like?” Steve asks. Billy tells him about his weird neighbors, the bookstore he used to work at, the view of the city from the bridge—all the things Billy would show him, if he came. Steve laughs and hums and makes these soft, curious sounds that Billy tucks away in his memory to take out later, in the night, when he can’t sleep for missing Steve.

After what feels like only a moment, a voice chimes in the background, and Steve says, “They’re calling my flight. I gotta go.”

“Yeah, of course. Have fun.”

“I will. Send me photos of SF, okay?”

“Okay,” says Billy, pleased, glad to have something to do this week besides wallow and bother Max. “Send me photos, too. I want to see the beaches.”

“I will,” Steve says again, and then, to someone else, “ _Jesus, ow, I’m coming_ —Billy, I gotta go. I’ll text you when we land, okay? Bye!”

“Bye,” says Billy softly, pretty sure Steve hung up already. He stares at his phone for a while before he really sees it, and when he does, he can’t believe how late it is—they talked for over an hour.

Billy nudges Jinx from his lap and then heads towards the kitchen, surprised Susan hasn’t called him for dinner yet. When he wanders in, Jinx darting between his feet, Susan’s cleaning the last pan and setting it to dry on the rack. The counters are clean, the kitchen table cleared except for two covered plates.

“Sorry,” Billy frowns. It isn’t like Susan to eat without him, but maybe things have changed. “I lost track of time—”

Susan shakes her head, wiping her hands off on a dish towel before coming over to smooth them over Billy’s shoulders, leading him to the table. “No, I know, sweetheart. You just seemed to be enjoying your conversation so much, and Max is still in a mood.” She sits in her usual spot and gestures for Billy to join her. “I thought I would wait you both out,” she adds with a small smile.

Billy eats in a silence, while Susan alternates between saying nonsensical things to Jinx and staring at Billy mistily. He suffers her attention, knowing it’s the least he can do—she really got the short end of the stick since he went to school. He had to go to Indiana, but she’s stuck alone with _Max_.

“Is she really that pissed at me?” Billy asks after he’s cleared his plate, staring at the empty spot across from him.

Susan sighs and stands to take his plate over to the sink. “No,” she says after a moment. “She’s been having some— _problems_ with a few girls at school. She won’t tell me the details, but. You know how girls can be at her age.”

“Not really,” says Billy, frowning. He wonders why he hasn’t Seen anything about it—when he was home, he dreamed of Max all the time. It drove her crazy, that he knew so much about her business. He shifts uneasily, realizing he hasn’t dreamed of her in weeks.

Susan digs a carton of ice cream out of the freezer and hands it to him with two spoons. “Maybe you can talk to her,” she says. “Tell her, ice cream for dinner, _only_ if she comes down and finishes her vegetables.”

“Okay,” says Billy, unnerved enough about his sudden realization that he doesn’t argue. When Jinx springs up to follow after him, Susan grabs him and hugs him to her chest. He chirps in offense, but Susan just rubs a hand over his ears and says,

“Not you, trouble. _You_ are staying with me. Give Max some peace away from you.” 

“He’s really been that bad?” Billy asks, wandering back over so he can rub Jinx’s ears too. They haven’t been apart since Billy got home, and as dumb as it is, he’s reluctant to even go upstairs without his tiny shadow.

“He’s been...” Susan trails off and hugs Jinx tighter, making him squirm. After a moment, she settles on, “Difficult. Maybe you can take him with you, next year. I don’t think he does very well away from you.” She gives Billy a searching look. “I can’t imagine you do very well without him, either.”

Billy thinks of all the nights he’s woken up reaching for a shape in the dark, thinks of the ache in his chest that’s more silver-white than Steve’s familiar purple. “Yeah,” says Billy. “I can live off campus next year, so, yeah, of course, I’ll take him.” He scratches Jinx under his chin a few more times and then turns to head upstairs before he loses his nerve.

Max’s door is firmly shut, but Billy knows from experience that if he waits for permission, he’ll be out in the hall all night. So, he just knocks loudly and says, “I’m coming in!”, waits five more seconds and then barges in before she can try to barricade the door.

He ducks on instinct when he spots her, just in time to miss the stuffed animal she throws at his head.

“Wow, okay,” he says, stooping to grab it and fling it back. He pops the lid off the ice cream as he falls into Max’s desk chair. “Guess I’m keeping this all to myself,” he adds around a mouthful of Phish Food. 

“Gross,” says Max, before sighing and holding a hand out like she’s the one doing him a favor. “Give it,” she demands.

Billy just chews obnoxiously for a minute. Everything in him wants to just keep the ice cream now, because he’s not Max’s _bitch,_ and also, she’s a _brat_ who needs to learn manners. But this _is_ supposed to be a peace offering, so he just stares her down for a few more seconds, digs out one last spoonful, and then hands her the carton.

The ice cream firmly in her possession, now is when Max usually launches into a big, angry rant, no prompting needed. But this time she lets the silence build, with nothing to fill it but the squeak of the desk chair as Billy turns in slow circles, taking in Max's walls, cluttered with photos and posters and fairy lights.

When his patience finally wears thin, Billy keeps his eyes on an abstract collage and says, “What’s your issue, Maxine?”

“What,” says Max, meanly. “Don’t you know?”

Billy turns to face her, making sure she knows he’s not joking when he answers, “ _No_. I don’t know why, but I haven’t Seen anything. Come on, dude. You know I’d warn you about this shit before it got this bad.”

“It’s not _bad_ ,” Max scowls. “It’s nothing. I don’t care.”

“Whatever,” Billy shrugs, spinning around some more. Even though the quiet grates on his skin, he lets it fall again, knowing he and Max are the same that way—and she’ll break before he does.

A minute later, she sighs loudly and asks, annoyed, “Where’s Jinx?”

“Downstairs,” Billy answers. “Mom says he’s been a bitch.”

Max snorts in agreement, and then after a beat, mutters, “He hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Billy says immediately, but Max just glares at him.

“He _does._ ”

“Maxine,” Billy sighs. “Don’t be stupid. Of course, he doesn’t. That’s not even possible.”

Max just scowls some more and digs at the ice cream aggressively. “He does,” she mutters again, but Billy doesn’t bother to respond, knowing that it’s not even what she’s pissed about. He wishes she would just, like, _tell him_ already, cause he’s jetlagged as fuck and really just wants to sleep. But he also hates not having context, and if he dreams about this shit tonight, he wants to know what the fuck’s going on.

“Was it really worth it?” Max asks suddenly. When Billy turns to look at her, she’s staring at the ice cream, avoiding his gaze.

“What?”

“ _Indiana_ and everything,” she says, meaning moving there, to the middle of nowhere, and leaving here, the only home he’s ever known. 

_Of course, it was,_ Billy wants to say, but he knows that’s not what she wants to hear.

Max knows how miserable he’s been, it’s not like he tries to hide it. But as shitty and freezing and lonely as the last year and half has been—all of it, _everything_ , was worth it for what he has now—Steve’s attention, his laugh, his bright eyes, his feet knocking against Billy’s under the table. Billy would suffer _decades_ of Indiana winters to have that, and he only really had to manage two.

But he’s never been able to explain to Max, really, what Steve is to him. It’s not like he’s tried _that_ hard—it's fucking embarrassing after all, and she’s his _kid sister_. It’s not like he _wants_ to talk to her about it. But she’s curious and ruthless, and she’s pestered him into giving up details, slowly, over the years.

 _He’s your soulmate,_ she concluded, age twelve, when Billy finally broke down and told her the tiniest truths.

 _Don’t be stupid, Max,_ he said _, There’s no such thing._

_Yes, there is. You love him more than anything. You dream about him every night._

_Not_ every _night,_ said Billy.

It went like that for a while, Max clinging to this idea that they were _fated_. She’d bug Billy for updates on Steve like the dreams were a weekly soap opera and not their real, actual lives. The last few years, she’s stopped asking so much, maybe finally realizing it’s not _romantic_ or _sweet_ , but sad and doomed from the start.

Now, Billy thinks Max hates Steve, a little, for making Billy so miserable all those years, so sick with grief and longing. It’s Billy's fault, really. He never told her about the good parts, the shimmery gold of Steve’s happiness, the lavender spark of his laugh.

Billy stands from the chair and stretches before loping over and sitting on the edge of Max’s bed. He digs his phone out and pretends to scroll casually, like he’s just bored, and not searching for a specific photo. He doesn’t have to look too hard. It's in his favorites, because, like, _of course_ , it is—it's his favorite photo in the world.

Last weekend, Steve invited Billy to hang out with him and Robin and Heather for the first time. Billy thought it would be awkward as hell, but if it was, he didn’t notice— _couldn’t_ notice, not with Steve so restless, giddy with rare, unbridled joy. It was unseasonably warm, so they wandered around in the melting snow, until it got dark and they took shelter in the diner.

This photo’s not the only one from that day, not by far. Billy tried to take as many as he could without seeming like a weirdo. But this one—a candid shot from when Robin stole his phone—is his favorite.

Steve and Billy are on one side of the diner booth, their faces still red from the cold. Steve’s laughing at something Heather said, his dimples wide and deep, and his eyes barely visible behind his pink, bunched-up cheeks. He is so, so happy, and Billy, beside him, is drunk with it, too distracted to keep his face in check. His own grin is half visible as he turns to catch the full effect of Steve’s joy. Billy’s not sure what Robin thought, taking the photo, but looking at it now, it seems so obvious, how _gone_ Billy is, how completely, hopelessly in love with Steve he is.

Even if Robin realized, Billy can’t bring himself to care. He’s just glad he has this photo, this memory—if nothing else ever comes from this sort-of friendship Billy’s building with Steve, he'll always have this day.

Billy stares at it a moment longer, and then offers his phone to Max, who raises an eyebrow in question.

“Just look,” says Billy, reaching for the ice cream with his other hand.

Max huffs in response, but makes the exchange, grabbing the phone from him with cold fingers. Billy tries to focus solely on digging out the best toppings from the carton, but he can’t help sneaking a glance or two to check Max’s reaction. Her face is blank at first, but her lips quirk up as she swipes through the other photos from that day.

A minute or so later, she gives him the phone back, and he passes the ice cream over silently. Fiddling with her spoon, she asks, “That’s Steve?”

“Yeah,” says Billy, letting himself stare at the photo for a few more seconds before he locks his screen and clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“You love him?” she asks, though Billy’s not sure why—she’s always known that.

“Yeah,” he says again.

“Does he know?”

Billy scoffs. “We’ve been talking for, like, two weeks, Max. So, _no_ , I didn’t tell him I love with him.”

She rolls her eyes and jabs the spoon too hard into the melting ice cream. “Does he even like you back?”

It’s Billy’s turn to scowl then. He picks at stray thread on Max’s comforter and mutters, “I don’t know. It’s complicated. He has a girlfriend. But he said he wasn’t straight so, I don’t know.” 

“When he finds out you’ve loved him for _ten years_ , he’ll _probably_ dump his girlfriend.”

“I’m not about to tell him that either, Max.”

“Never?” she says, her surprise enough to shake the annoyance that’s clouded her voice all night.

“I mean, maybe, eventually, but—” Billy thinks of star-stuff and the fire on Halloween, and how frozen with fear he’d been, all week, willing himself to finally write _you’re in danger, please believe me, I know, I’m psychic._ Even then, with Steve’s safety on the line, he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “Someday.”

They slip into silence again, Billy flipping through his photos long enough for Max to finish nearly the entire carton of ice cream. He watches her set it down on her bedside table and says, “Susan said something about vegetables.”

Max ignores him completely to blurt, “Would you really _stay_ there?”

“What,” says Billy.

“In _Indiana_ ,” Max says it like a swear. “Like, your _whole_ life?”

“No,” says Billy, equally disturbed at the idea. “Who said that? I’m not doing that.”

“What if he asked you to?”

“He won’t,” says Billy.

“But how do—”

“He hates it there, Max,” says Billy, exhausted suddenly. He’s had such a long ass day, and he doesn’t like thinking about that, how _sad_ Steve’s been, all his life, and how sad Billy’s been, because of it. “It’s cold, and he doesn’t have a lot of friends—his parents aren’t—his family isn’t close. He doesn’t want to stay there, and trust me, after he sees SF, he’ll never want to go back.”

“Is he coming here?”

“Definitely,” says Billy, with a conviction he doesn’t quite feel. “I’ll bring him in the summer. You can meet him, we’ll show him the city. It’ll be great."

“Did you See it?” Max asks, skeptical.

“No,” Billy sighs out. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t make it happen, okay?”

“Okay,” Max says slowly.

“Okay,” Billy echoes definitively. “Now, tell me about these bitches at school so I can go the fuck to sleep.”

“ _Don’t_ look into it, Billy. I mean it.”

“Did I _say_ I was gonna look into it?” Billy scoffs. “I just know you wanna rant about it, and Mom says you won’t tell her, so,” Billy gestures for her to start talking. “You got ten minutes and then I’m passing out.”

Thirty minutes later, Billy falls face first onto his bed, which is finally cleared of all Susan’s _quilting_ shit. He listens idly to Max’s thundering steps down the stairs, willing himself to at least to get under the covers, but he’s not really cold anyway, and his pillow is so soft. He just drifts for a while. At some point, his door creaks open and he feels a small weight settle on his back. Jinx’s familiar purr eases the ache of _emptymissingplease_ in Billy’s chest enough for him to finally fall asleep.

He doesn’t know how long he gets before a sudden burst of buzzing wakes him. He shoots up, disoriented, pressing his palm over the frantic thumping of his heart. He thinks of Steve across the country in a city he’s never been to, maybe lost, maybe hurt, maybe _scared_ —

Billy scrambles for his phone, ignoring Jinx’s disgruntled protest. It’s only when he finds it in the tangle of his sheets, the screen lit up, that his hazy thoughts settle enough to realize that the buzzing isn’t Steve’s nerves, but his drunk texting. Billy thumbs his phone open to see ten new messages, all sent in the last three minutes. 

**Steve Harrington [11:09]**

How r youu

**Steve Harrington [11:09]**

Im good

**Steve Harrington [11:09]**

The drinks here are NOT cHEPA THO

**Steve Harrington [11:10]**

CHEAP lol

**Steve Harrington [11:10]**

Robin and heather r bring too in love again :(

**Steve Harrington [11:10]**

I think his is a gay club ? Guys keep ask king me to dance lol

**Steve Harrington [11:10]**

I said no tho

**Steve Harrington [11:10]**

Are you sleep?

**Steve Harrington [11:11]**

Siri says its only 11 in California u nerd

**Steve Harrington [11:11]**

Oh 11 11 make a wish

Billy turns on his side to stare at the tiny screen in the dark, smoothing a hand over Jinx’s back as he curls into the curve of Billy’s body. Billy closes his eyes indulgently, wishing for Steve to be somewhere far away from the heavy stares of strangers—preferably here, in Billy’s bed, safe and warm.

**Me [11:13]**

be careful with those miami boys stevie

They'll eat a country hick like you alive

**Steve Harrington**

Your awake ! !!!

**Me**

ya now i am

**Steve Harrington**

Oh I woke u up sorry :( go back too sleep! Its ok even if u are a nerd

**Me**

its cool i'm up now

youre still with robin and heather right? not alone?

**Steve Harrington**

They’re making out somehwere? They wre I don’t see them but its dark in here

I don’t think theyd leave tho! It s ok

**Me**

go find them now ok? and keep texting me

**Steve Harrington**

Aw you miss me?

**Me**

just dont trust u not to get sidetracked by all those Florida boys

**Steve Harrington**

??? No im not like that

Into every boys only liked too boys in my life

But robin says its still counts

Billy clenches his phone hard in his hands to keep from typing _who,_ trying desperately not to let hope build in his chest at the thought that maybe _he_ could be one of those boys.

**Me**

ofc it counts

did you find them?

**Steve Harrington**

No :(

Maybe they went outside?? Its really hot in here

**Me**

ok hold on

keep texting me but im just gonna be away for two seconds

**Steve Harrington**

Ok lol

Im not sooo drujk Billy its ok

Billy frowns at that but doesn’t bother responding, too busy pulling up Heather’s contact. He deliberates for only a second, wondering if this is too weird, too telling, that he’d call Heather from across the country just because he’s worried about a slightly intoxicated friend. But Steve’s a lightweight, and beautiful, and _young_ , in a club at 2 AM in a strange city. Billy shakes away his doubt and hits call.

It rings through to voicemail, but Billy just ends the call and tries again and again. He lets out a frustrated huff, determined to keep it up for as long as it takes for Heather to notice her buzzing phone under the thrum of whatever shitty house music is playing. Billy checks on Steve’s messages before calling a fourth time, and snorts at what he reads.

**Steve Harrington**

Are u taking a shit ??

You can text me on the toilet I don’t care I do it all the time

**Me**

good to know

u still ok?

**Steve Harrington**

Hot dn gross

Its really crowded asd I cant see anything? Don’t think I cn find the m gonda go outside

The thought of Steve on a dark, foreign street like this, drunk and alone, sinks something sudden in Billy’s gut. He’s quick to text back,

**Me**

don’t go outside steve ok?

wait by the door inside

it'll be cooler there ok just don’t go outside

**Steve Harrington**

Ok if you want??

Wish you were here :(

Its boring

Billy fights a sting in his eyes at that. He feels Jinx uncurl enough to press his nose to Billy’s chin, and it startles Billy enough to remind him of more urgent matters than the ever-present ache in his chest.

**Me**

me too

hold on for a few more seconds

He calls Heather a fourth time, and he’s on the last ring of the fifth when she finally answers.

“Billy?” she yells above the thump of a bass.

“Heather,” he says back, as loud as he can without waking Max on the other side of the wall. “Can you hear me?”

“Not really,” she says, still yelling. “What’s wrong?”

“You need to find Steve, he’ll be by the front door—he's really drunk, okay, you have to get him home.”

“How do you know?” Heather asks, and Billy doesn’t like the suspicion in her voice, but he really doesn’t have the energy to worry about that, too.

“He texted me,” says Billy. “Seriously, Heather. You’re in a random Miami club and he’s drunk and alone—go find him! What the fuck,” he adds, furious suddenly, at the both of them, Heather and Robin. What were they thinking, bringing Steve to a place he obviously wouldn’t feel comfortable in, and then leaving him to get wasted while they hook up in some corner.

“Fine! Don’t yell at me,” says Heather, and then they must move somewhere quieter because Billy can hear Robin in the background now, saying,

“Who’s yelling at you? Let me talk to them, just, give me—” and then Robin clearly wrangles the phone away from her girlfriend to yell directly in Billy’s ear. “Who the _fuck_ is this?”

“Robin,” says Billy, wearily—he's so fucking tired, strung out now with jetlag and worry. “It’s Billy—Go. Find. Steve.”

“Steve? Steve’s fine, what are you talking about, he’s right here,” and then there’s more shuffling, and someone says _talk to your fucking boyfriend._ Thousands of miles away, Billy flushes.

“Billy?” The sound of Steve's voice makes the heavy curl of anxiety in Billy’s gut finally loosen. Against his chest, Jinx purrs.

“Hey,” Billy breathes, unable to mask the relief in his voice. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says unsteadily. “I mean, um. Maybe not so good? Kinda sick. But Robin said we’re going now, so that’s good. I’m really tired. I miss you,” he adds in a whisper, like it’s a secret. Maybe it is.

Billy can’t help it this time, he _can’t_. He whispers back, “I miss you, too.” Then, a little louder, “Text me when you get home, okay? And drink a lot of water before you sleep.”

“Okay,” Steve says easily, like it’s second nature, doing what Billy says. It sends a tingle of _something_ down Billy’s spine that he doesn’t want to think too much about right now.

“Okay, baby,” Billy says—it just slips out, when Steve’s so hazy, so tired, and Billy just wants to make him _better_. He only hopes Steve’s too out of it to remember that tomorrow, and hurries to add, “Put Robin back on?”

“Okay. Bye, Billy.”

A second later, Robin’s irate voice is back. “—really don’t need you _micromanaging_ our night from _California_.”

The glow of hearing Steve’s voice fades pretty quickly, replaced with Billy’s usual thrum of annoyance at everything in the world. “Stop leaving him alone in strange clubs and maybe I won’t.”

“We’re his best friends, you know. Like, I’m pretty sure we can take care of him better than you.”

Billy has to literally bite his tongue to keep from saying _I’m his fucking soulmate._

“I’m his friend, too,” he says instead, letting himself finally believe it. It’s true, isn’t it? Steve texted him when he was lonely. Steve misses him. Not star-stuff, but _him_ , Billy Hargrove.

“I guess,” says Robin begrudgingly, and then suddenly, “Oh, Steve’s puking now, gotta go.”

Billy stays curled up on his side, one hand clenched around his phone and the other petting Jinx obsessively to keep from calling back. Steve’s fine now, Billy knows. He was fairly coherent, not nearly drunk enough to be in real danger. He’ll have a headache tomorrow, that’s it. He’s fine.

Still, Billy doesn’t relax until he gets a text from Heather thirty minutes later,

**Heather H**

we made it back to my aunt’s place! steve threw up a bunch of times but he’s ok now!

**Me**

ok thanks for letting me know

make sure he drinks water

**Heather H**

we will! night billy!

With that, Billy finally feels like he can maybe get back to sleep. Five minutes later, he’s curled around Jinx, his phone plugged in to charge, when it buzzes again. Billy smashes his knuckles into his bedside table lunging for it, and he hisses, bringing his hand up to his mouth as he opens the screen.

**Steve Harrington**

Hey were back home

I’m drink lots of water like you said

Gonna sleep soon but talk tomorrow?

**Me**

good thanks for telling me

ofc we’ll talk tomorrow

sleep well

**Steve Harrington**

You too :)

Billy stares at Steve’s messages until his phone screen goes dark, and then he wakes it up just to stare some more. After a while, Jinx lifts his head and blinks slowly at Billy in the dim pocket of light.

“He’s okay,” Billy whispers, to reassure both of them. Jinx chirps in reply and rolls over, flicking Bill’s face with his tail until Billy sighs, “Okay, okay, Jesus." He sets his phone to charge, and when he rolls onto his back, Jinx immediately flops over his chest and presses his face under Billy’s chin. With Steve somewhere safe and the steady rumble of Jinx’s purr, Billy’s asleep within minutes.

*-.*-.*-.

Every other student in the world probably thinks spring break passes far too quickly, but as much as Billy loves being home, hanging with Max and seeing Jinx and eating Susan’s cooking, his skin itches with the need to be back at school. Now that he knows what it’s like to be with Steve every day, to hear his laugh and see the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, Billy can’t go back to just texting.

The week crawls by, and by the time he’s back at the dorms, his fingers are twitching at his sides like he’s had too much caffeine. Steve sent Billy his flight info days ago, and if Billy’s been refreshing the American Airlines page constantly it’s really nobody’s business. But that’s how he knows even before Steve texts him that their plans to meet up for a late dinner aren’t going to work out anymore.

**Steve Harrington**

Hey so our flight got delayed :( we’re getting in really late now so we’re gonna miss dinner

Breakfast tomorrow? Pancakes at the diner? :)

Billy sighs through his teeth, already knowing he won’t be able to get shit done today, won’t be able to concentrate on anything until he sees Steve in front of him, solid and happy and whole.

**Me**

yeah ofc

sorry abt your flight

**Steve Harrington**

I know it sucks

We’re stuck here at the airport and I’m so bored :(

Can I call you?

Talking to Steve is almost as good as seeing him— _almost_. It’s enough to let Billy get a few hours of work done before he tosses and turns all night, but at least he doesn’t dream.

He’s two minutes away from the diner the next morning—early but unable to wait any longer—when he hears the scuff of boots moving far too quickly on the still icy sidewalk. That’s all the warning he gets before a familiar voice yells,

“Billy!”

Billy turns just in time to see Steve start to slip, his arms pinwheeling out as he tries to balance. Billy catches him on instinct, and luckily Steve broke his fall enough to keep them both from tumbling over. The whole ordeal leaves them unbearably close, though, Steve’s hands fisted in Billy’s jacket, his breath warm on Billy’s face. It’s only a second or two before Steve pulls away, flushing, but it’s enough for Billy to memorize the feel of him against his chest.

Steve laughs, an embarrassed huff, and tilts backwards, putting space between them. “Sorry, man,” he says, and then, still grinning, “It’s—it’s good to see you.”

 _God_ , is it ever. With the extra inches between them, Billy can finally pull himself together enough to take in the full effect of Steve, fresh from a week spent on sunny, Florida beaches, with no schoolwork or family around to stress him out.

And he’s— _glowing_. He’s a shade or two tanner from the sun, his eyes are impossibly bright, and he’s got a new freckle, high on his left cheek. Billy stares at it, cataloging this part of Steve that he doesn’t know yet, wishing he could press his lips to it and find out what it tastes like. Steve, like this, is more than Billy’s ever dreamed of. It makes Billy want to pull him closer again, so he can breathe him in and see if he can smell the salt of the ocean on Steve’s skin.

“Yeah,” Billy gets out after way too long. “Yeah, you—you too.” Steve’s grin widens at Billy’s slip up, and then they’re both laughing for no reason at all, except maybe that it’s bright and warm outside, and they’re together again.

“What’s so funny,” says a new voice moments later. Billy looks up to find Robin and Heather standing with matching smiles, both their eyebrows raised in question. It’s only when Steve coughs and takes another step back that Billy realizes his hands were still clutching at Steve’s sides—to keep him steady on the ice, that’s all.

“Nothing,” says Steve, rubbing at his smile with the cuff of his sleeve like he’s trying to hide it. “Can we go in? I’m starving.”

Robin huffs as she pushes the diner door open, setting off the chime of the bell _._ “Don’t know why you’re asking me, dingus. We were waiting on you lovebir— _ow_.” She rubs at her side and shoots Heather a glare, but Heather just smiles sweetly, first at her girlfriend and then at Billy.

“How was your trip home?” she asks him.

Steve’s jacket gets caught when Billy slides into the booth next to him, and when they both go to fix it, their fingers brush, which makes Steve laugh for some reason, just a soft sound.

“Sorry,” he mutters, avoiding Billy’s gaze to stare fixedly at the menu, as if he doesn’t know he’s going to get banana pancakes with whipped cream on the side, his favorite breakfast since he was eight.

Billy forces himself to look away from the pink of Steve’s cheeks, back to Heather, whose question still hangs in the air. Her eyes are bemused when he meets them. For one, dumb moment, Billy thinks of saying, _you took my home with you._ And then he thinks, _fucking shit,_ reminds himself he’s not in a goddamn romcom, and says, “Good, yeah, it was good to go home. How was Florida?”

Billy smiles and nods through Heather’s answer, but he’s really thinking of Steve’s leg pressed against his, the edges of their boots just next to each other under the table. It takes them an hour to eat, but Billy doesn’t move an inch the whole time.

After they bundle back up and trudge outside into the bright, March air, Robin knocks her shoulder against Billy’s and grins. “So, did you bring us anything back from the gayest city on earth?”

It shocks a laugh out of Billy, who shakes his head. “Uh, no, sorry. I wasn’t aware presents were—uh, expected. Also, I’m pretty sure _Amsterdam_ is the gayest city on earth.”

Robin quirks an eyebrow. “And why’s that?” she asks, like a teacher who _knows_ why and just wants you to say it.

“The Netherlands was the first country to legalize gay marriage, and the first gay marriages there happened in Amsterdam,” Heather answers for him.

Robin turns to links her arm with her girlfriend’s and sighs. “It’s so hot that you know that,” she says in a swoon, making Heather laugh.

“That is _basic_ trivia, babe. You gotta do better than that to best me.”

Robin takes the bate easily enough, pulling Heather ahead of Billy and Steve to get lost in some kind of lesbian history debate. Before they get out of hearing range, Heather adds to Billy, over her shoulder, “Steve got _you_ a present.” Robin giggles in response, and the two of them race ahead like they’ve just pulled off some amazing scheme, instead of an elementary playground level ploy.

When Billy looks over at him, Steve’s staring at his boots, both hands pressed deep into his pockets. Billy grins, taking the bate easily, too.

“Oh, you did?”

“No,” Steve mutters.

“You _didn’t_?” Billy feigns disbelief and despair. “You went all the way to Miami—what very well may be the portal to Hell on Earth—and you didn’t bring me back a _souvenir_?”

Steve looks up and grins at that, his eyes flashing that way Billy knows means he’s about to make the worst joke of all time. “I don’t know, man. I guess I thought you should go to hell yourself.” He can barely get it out without laughing, and Billy’s fake shock at the insult sends him spiraling into giggles so hard, he nearly brains himself on a lamppost. Billy tugs at Steve’s elbow to keep him steady, but Billy almost loses his own feet out from under him when their eyes meet. It’s just—it’s just so _unbelievable_ , just a fucking shock to the system, to be at the center of Steve’s joy, to be the _cause_ of it.

Billy should follow up with something, should insult him right back, but he just can’t. He can’t _think_ , not when he swears he can feel Steve’s happiness, like liquid gold, under his skin.

So, they just walk in a warm kind of silence for a while. They’re halfway across the campus green, Robin and Heather nowhere in sight, when Steve nudges at Billy a little and says, lowly, “I did get you something.”

Billy looks over at him, curious. Steve seems to gather himself, breathing deep, before he puts a hand on Billy’s elbow to still them. He pulls them off the path, out of the way of other students, before he takes something out of his pocket. With the present still hidden in his fist, Steve grins up at him, but Billy can tell it’s a show, that he’s nervous beyond telling. He doesn’t feel the echoes of it or anything, just knows Steve’s smiles too well.

“I think you’ll like it,” he says, sarcastic, like it’s a joke, a gag gift, but the flicker in his eyes tells Billy he means it. “I think it really goes with your whole, you know—” he glances at Billy’s jean jacket, which, even with the fuzzy inside, isn’t nearly warm enough for the Indiana winter, “ _look_ ,” he finishes with a smirk.

“My _superficial hipster douchebag_ look?” Billy teases back, trying to ease Steve’s nerves.

It works, a little. Steve laughs, just a shudder of sound. “Yeah, yeah, exactly.”

He finally uncurls his fingers to reveal a bracelet made of braided purple thread, with a single puka shell in the middle. Billy’s heart thumps at the sight of it, loud, then louder. It’s the exact opposite of _his_ _look_ , really, whatever that is. It’s every bit the stereotypical surfer boy shit Billy never wants to be associated with. Aesthetically, it’s awful. And it has nothing at all to do with Florida, but—it’s _from Steve_. Billy _loves_ it.

When he takes it from Steve’s palm, the shell is warm despite the cold, as if Steve’s been holding it all this time in his pocket. Billy rubs his thumb along the purple braid, his eyes stinging, wishing he could say, _this is the color of your soul, did you know?_ Instead, he looks into Steve’s anxious eyes and grins, easy, like he isn’t shaking inside, too.

“Well?” he says. “I can’t put it on myself.”

If Steve’s fingers tremble when he takes it back from Billy, neither of them mentions it. They both hold their breath when he pulls it around Billy’s wrist, though. The feeling of Steve’s fingertips against Billy’s pulse isn’t something he’ll forget soon. His skin burns with it.

“So, you like it?” Steve teases, getting closer to Billy again, always pushing at him. They’re pretty much the same height—Steve might even be taller—but he has a tendency to hunch, and Billy’s got a thing for boots with heels. It means Steve’s looking up at him now, his eyelashes dark, and wet somehow, even though it’s not raining. It’s just so bright out, with the sun bouncing off the melting snow. It makes the warmth of Steve’s eyes pop, turns them to honey, amber-gold.

 _I love you,_ Billy thinks, and he swears, just for a moment, it feels like Steve’s thinking it, too.

It’d be so easy. It’d be _so easy,_ to duck forward, to press his lips to Steve’s, just a little, just _enough_ to know what the air from his mouth tastes like when he’s caught like this, in golden light.

But then Billy remembers, suddenly, Steve’s last spring break. He went home to Hawkins, hung out with Nancy a lot. There was one afternoon that burned itself into Billy’s mind—Steve fell asleep in a cozy room with his head in Nancy’s lap, so warm and content, that Billy woke up both reveling in it and hating it, _so much_ , for all that it meant. He thinks about that now, and about all the little gifts Steve gave her back then, trinkets and flowers and small, shiny things, like a crow with a human favorite.

Billy holds the ache of that memory in his mind and pulls away from Steve, forces himself to stare at the blinding snow until he can’t see Steve anymore, just blotches of green.

“I like it,” he says, though it comes out flatter than he wants it to. It sucks _so much_ , this giant mess, but the growing furrow in Steve’s brow doesn’t bode well for either of them, and Billy wants to sleep tonight. So, he rubs a thumb over the shell on his wrist, still warm from Steve’s skin, and tries again. “Really. It’s not exactly my _look_ , but. Thank you,” he murmurs the last part, pleased, despite everything, at the flush of Steve’s cheeks that flares so easy.

“Yeah,” Steve coughs, “You’re welcome, I mean, um. I like getting my—friends stuff, from, like, trips, so. You know. I got stuff for lots of people, so, you’re not, like, special.” He grins, and Billy knocks his shoulder against Steve’s, grinning too.

“Oh, I got it, okay,” he says as they continue on their way back to the dorm. “So, this is really just a mandatory thing, for you. Like, you _had_ to get me something, for your conscience.”

“Exactly,” Steve nods soundly. “Glad you understand.”

“Oh, I understand,” Billy echoes. Sometimes, maybe. He’s starting to.

Billy plays with the shell at his wrist the whole rest of the day, thinking of Steve’s eyes in the light, of how hard all this is and how much it’s worth it.

**kingg_stevee [3:05]**

Hey I landed safe by the way! Thanks for checking :)

What are you up to?

**star-stuff**

just wasting away waiting for u

**kingg_stevee**

Lol

And you say I’m the drama queen

**star-stuff**

takes one to know one babe

**Steve Harrington [5:53]**

I can’t do this reading for a single second longer

**Me**

you’ve been back from break for maybe an hour

**Steve Harrington**

Like ten hours actually??

Bored :(

Dinner?

**Me**

meet u downstairs

*-.*-.*-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess the boys' love languages lol
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	8. New Kind of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Steve,” says Heather. “This is an intervention.”
> 
> “No,” says Steve, confused. “It’s Thursday. This is a Star Boy Meeting.”
> 
> “It’s a trick, dingus,” Robin says. “We disguised the intervention by hiding it inside the Star Boy Meeting—it's a meeting turducken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter to those who celebrate! I hope you're all staying safe. It's pretty much rainbows and sunshine from this chapter on, so I hope that gives you some happiness in these weird times. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_It gives me sweet little pains in my heart / like a sweet little rain, that falls for a flower / You're all that matters / Baby, you’re the star / and that's love / a new kind of love_

_“New Kind of Love” – Skylar Grey_

“Okay, what about this,” Steve says, waving his drink in the girls’ direction while trying not to lose the little paper umbrella.

Over the last few months, Steve’s learned that the bigger the problem at hand for their weekly Star Boy Mystery Meeting, the more elaborate Heather makes the drinks. This time, she’s picked up a few plastic hurricane glasses, and a bullet blender to mix up all the ice. They’ve each got their very own frozen daiquiris, which doesn’t really give Steve a ton of confidence that they’ll solve tonight’s issue.

Heather eyes Steve’s drink and the precarious amount of ice near the rim. “You spill that on my blankets,” she starts, “and you’re banned from any future meetings, just so you know.”

Steve pauses in his train of thought to stare at her. “These meetings are about _me_ ,” he says.

“Not everything’s about you, Leo,” says Robin loudly from her spot on the floor, her head in Heather’s lap. “These meetings are about _Billy_.”

“Allegedly,” says Heather, patting at Robin’s hair.

“Guilty until proven innocent,” says Robin, which Heather apparently decides isn’t worth a reply. She just pinches Robin’s nose so her voice comes out like a looney toon when Robin adds, “We can have them without you, Steven. You tamper the jury, anyway.”

“No, I don’t,” Steve argues, offended, though he’s not entirely sure what that means in this context. Or any context. He’s pretty sure he failed U.S. Government in high school.

“You kind of do,” says Heather. “I just mean,” she adds hastily when Steve glares at her, “we probably could figure this out a lot quicker if you’d actually let us do more recon. Instead of, you know, going on double dates all the time.”

“That is the recon!” says Steve, frowning. “And they’re not dates.” They’re _not_. Just because four people hang out a lot, and three of them are in love with another person present, doesn’t mean it’s a double date. It just means it’s—messy. They’re just messy group hangouts.

“We went to the movies, Steve,” Robin argues back, trying to balance her drink on her stomach until Heather snatches it away. “We went to see _Love, Simon_.”

“So?”

“ _So_? That’s, like, the only gay date movie to come out in the past three years! Not to mention, it’s practically the story of your actual life!”

Steve opens his mouth to argue otherwise, but he—can't really. That movie _was_ pretty hard to sit through, especially with Billy’s arm so close to his on the armrest, and his phone like a heavy brick in his pocket.

“Whatever,” says Steve, “Moving on—”

“That means we won,” Robin mumbles to Heather, who snorts.

“ _Moving on_ ,” Steve repeats louder. “To the real problem at hand—” Steve taps at the notebook they’re vaguely gathered around, where two hours ago Robin wrote in sparkly bubble letters: _Get Billy to Reveal Himself as Star Boy So ~~Bitch Ass~~ Steve Doesn’t Have to Confront Him. _

“You’re right,” Heather interrupts, straightening suddenly, enough to make Robin grumble at the movement. “We _should_ get to the real problem at hand.” She reaches to grab the notebook, while Robin whines and rolls away from her girlfriend, saying,

“Aw, babe, right now?”

“ _Yes_ , right now,” Heather says, glaring and still flipping through the pages for something. “I’m sick of this, and you should be too.”

“But—”

“Steve,” says Heather, cutting Robin off. Steve stares at Heather, nervous, as she settles on a page and clutches the book to her chest, like she’s waiting to show him something. “We’re your friends,” she goes on firmly, somehow making that sound like not such a good thing. “And friends are honest with each other, even when it means telling _their_ friend, who they love, that he's being a bag of dicks.”

Steve’s eyes widen as Heather finally slams the notebook down dramatically on the floor, revealing a sentence written in the same pink gel pen: _Get Steve to ~~Stop Being a Bag of Dicks &~~ Break Up with His Girlfriend._

“Steve,” says Heather. “This is an intervention.”

“No,” says Steve, confused. “It’s Thursday. This is a Star Boy Meeting.”

“It’s a trick, dingus,” Robin says. “We disguised the intervention by hiding it inside the Star Boy Meeting—it's a meeting turducken.”

“A turducken is three things,” says Heather.

“How do you _know_ that,” Robin marvels, staring at her girlfriend with far too much admiration for Steve to handle, given the current bubble letters staring up at him. He stabs at them with an unsteady finger.

“I’m not doing this,” he says.

“Now, Steven—” Robin starts patiently.

“No,” Steve cuts her off, “Robin, you know I can’t, I _can’t_ do it—”

“Do you love her?” Heather asks suddenly, her dark eyes intense in the low glow from the fairy lights. At Steve’s silence, she goes on, “I mean it, Steve, really, do you love her? And, even if you do, do you love her enough to give all this up?” She flicks at the notebook, which is filled with other pages from other meetings, with other issues in bubble letters and Robin’s colorful commentary. Heather goes on, “Because none of this is fair to her, or you. I know you don’t think it’s cheating, because you haven’t _done_ anything, but it _is_ , okay? If you’re dating someone, and you love someone else, which you do, _twice_ over, then it’s practically cheating, and it’s not good for _either_ of you. You have to end this. _Some_ part of this. And since I’ve gone on _several_ double dates with you and Billy—and seen the way you look at him, and the way he looks at you—I think the part you should probably end is what you have with Nancy. So, you need to do it, and you need to do it _soon_ , before things go any farther with you and Billy, _or_ star-stuff.”

“And/or,” Robin adds, but her smile dims when she sees Steve’s face, whatever it looks like. She sighs and squeezes Steve’s socked foot in support. “I know why you don’t want to,” she says softly, and even though Steve hasn’t told her, he believes it. Robin’s good at reading into all the things he doesn’t say. She proves him right when she goes on, “I know she hurt you, and made you mad, and you think _you_ shouldn’t have to be the one to end things, even if you could, which you can’t, because you have a pathological fear of confrontation.”

“Exactly,” says Steve.

“ _But_ ,” Robin adds, squeezing his foot again. “Heather’s right. And I'm not just saying that because she’s always right about everything.” At that, Heather grins and smacks a kiss on Robin’s cheek. “Don’t you think you’d feel so much better,” Robin says, “having one less thing to worry about? One less complication in this big, giant mess of complications?”

“We’ve been together for three years,” Steve says instead of answering, not looking at either of them. It makes his eyes sting, thinking about it, which is why he doesn’t, ever, if he can help.

Because the terrible truth is, even in this big, giant mess of complications, even with Billy and star-stuff, he does still love Nancy. He has for years. Just because it feels different now—less all-consuming than it was in high school, or freshman year—doesn’t mean it’s gone. Just because she cheated on him and lied to him and doesn’t love him anymore doesn’t mean he can stop loving her too.

“I know,” says Robin softly. In some kind of silent agreement, she and Heather come to sit on either side of him, Robin clasping his hand in both of hers while Heather puts her head on his shoulder. “And three years is a long time. But I also know you haven’t seen her since we got back from Florida, haven’t gone on a date with her probably for weeks before that. You never talk about her. I think you’re hanging onto something that doesn’t exist anymore, and I think hanging onto it now, when you have this other, potentially amazing thing just waiting for you, is hurting you more than the breakup would.”

“We’ll help you,” says Heather, and they’re like the opposite of an angel and a devil on his shoulders, just one combined force of will split down the middle. “We can practice with you, figure out what you’ll say.”

“Definitely,” says Robin. “We can even go with you, if you want. For moral support.” Heather nods against Steve’s arm, and then they just sit there, two steady weights by his sides. He doesn’t know how long they let him brood in silence, before Robin squeezes his hand and says,

“Oh, baby deer. Do you want to call Billy?” Of course, Steve wants to call Billy, he almost always wants to call Billy these days. But he shakes his head, because it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you should tell the guy you’re in love with—that you’ll probably never be together for real because you’re too afraid to break up with a girl who doesn’t love you anyway.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Heather leaves briefly and comes back with a box of tissues that smell like peppermint. It takes him a few minutes to place it and, when he does, he laughs wetly into Heather’s shoulder—they changed places at some point, him leading against her—and asks, “Why does everything in your room smell so good?”

Heather laughs softly back and pets at his hair. “Because I’m gay,” she says, which makes Robin and Heather giggle hysterically for long enough that Steve forgets to be upset for a while and laughs, too.

*-.*-.*-.

“Okay,” says Robin, bouncing in place a little, maybe to stay warm or maybe because she seems almost more nervous than Steve, if that’s possible. “You’re caffeinated, hydrated, you look beautiful.” Steve grins unsteadily at that, while Heather rolls her eyes and hooks her arm through Robin’s to get her to chill.

“You’re going to do great,” Heather says to him, confident. “And we’ll be waiting for you after, no matter what—if you want to get drunk and celebrate, or eat Ben & Jerry’s and cry, we’re down for either. Just text us, okay?”

“Okay,” says Steve, feeling his nerves dim for a moment to make way for a startling wave of _thankfulness_ —that he’s somehow acquired three to four new, overbearing, potentially-psychic friends this year to tell him what to do, and be there for him, when before all he had was his own stupidity to guide him, and a bunch of nerdy high schoolers who ignored him for Minecraft more often than not. “You know you’re not my actual parents, though, right?” he says, to lighten the mood and distract from his suddenly blurry eyes—from the wind, that’s all.

“Well, obviously,” says Robin, rolling her eyes. “But that’s just because those damn adoption papers are caught up in the court system. The things same-sex parents have to deal with these days,” she adds, shaking her head for a while before lunging at him and catching him in a too-tight hug.

“You got this,” she mutters against his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says back, just as soft.

“Babe, you gotta let go,” says Heather when Robin clings a little too long. “Separation anxiety,” she says to Steve when she has to drag Robin away. “What can you do? Text us,” she adds firmly, and Steve nods.

“I will.”

The thankful feeling lasts for as long as it takes Heather and Robin to disappear around the corner of the building. Left waiting alone on the library steps, Steve’s nerves come back full force, enough to leave him nauseous, his hands shaking. He pulls out his phone to check the time—two minutes to four, when Nancy’s supposed to show. They’re going on a walk, supposedly nowhere specific, but Steve plans to lead them vaguely towards the soccer fields, which should be pretty empty this time of year. It’s far enough away from main campus that Nancy can yell at him for a while if she wants to, but close enough that Robin and Heather won’t have far to go to scrape him up off the bleachers and take him back home when it’s over.

Nancy’s usually late—or, she is when she’s supposed to meet Steve somewhere—so he pulls up his chat with star-stuff for something to do. Their conversation has dwindled a little, the past few days. Since he’s decided to break things off with Nancy, Steve hasn’t really wanted to talk to him, just in case he offers any insight that could change Steve’s already-uncertain mind.

**kingg_stevee [4:01]**

Tell me something funny

**star-stuff**

ur face

**kingg_stevee**

What a great joke!

Almost fourth grade level!

**star-stuff**

u love it

what’s up?

**kingg_stevee**

Doing something I’m dreading :(

Distract me?

**star-stuff**

*sent a photo*

Steve smiles as soon as the photo loads—a giant, black cat the size of a small toddler, asleep, belly up, on a couch somewhere.

**kingg_stevee**

A baby!

He’s so cute!! Is he yours?

**star-stuff**

yeah

his names Jinx

**kingg_stevee**

You have a black cat named Jinx?

Nvm of course you do

Send more

**star-stuff**

*sent a photo*

*sent a photo*

*sent a photo*

“Hey.”

Steve stuffs his phone in his pocket on instinct when he hears Nancy’s voice. “Hey,” he says back, standing. They both scuff at the muddy ground in silence for a beat too long, before he musters the courage to cough and add, “Thanks for, um. Meeting me. You wanna?” he nods towards the dirt path that leads to the long way to the fields.

“Sure,” says Nancy.

They walk for a while under the dappled light from the trees, Steve twisting his hands in his pockets, working up the nerve to say something. He waits too long, though.

“So, you went to Florida for break?” Nancy asks, filling the quiet. “It looked like fun—I mean, I saw on Instagram.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, it was great, last minute, you know, like I said.” He’d texted Nancy a few hours before their flight took off, that he’d had a chance of plans. “Sorry I didn’t—text you, more. When I was there, it was just, we were so busy all day and—”

“It’s okay,” Nancy says, smiling at him briefly before looking ahead again. That’s the reason Robin and Heather told him to do this on a walk _,_ as if _taking_ _walks_ is something he and Nancy do— _did_ —as a couple. It just makes it easier, that they don’t have to look at each other.

A few more minutes go by, or maybe it’s just seconds, it’s hard to tell. Everything feels stretched too tight, the tension unbearable. Finally, he says, “Listen—”

“Steve, I—” Nancy starts at the same time. They both smile awkwardly, and she adds, “You first.”

Steve takes a deep breath and tries to start again, tries to remember all the things he practiced with Robin and Heather beforehand, about how they’re not good for each other anymore, how they’ll both be happier apart. It must all leave him, though, because he opens his mouth and says, “I saw you, you know. With him, in the library. Back in September.”

That makes Nancy’s smile dim then vanish, as they both come to a stop along the path.

“Steve—” she tries again, but he can’t help it now, can’t fix whatever dam he’s finally unblocked enough to say all that he’s thought about that since it happened, since he saw.

“And I just waited and waited for you to tell me, for you to say something, _anything_ , for you to _break up with me_ —but you never did. And I just don’t get why. You barely care about me anymore—”

“That’s _not_ true—”

“Isn’t it? God, Nance, do you even know what days I work? Do you know what classes I’m taking this semester?”

Nancy tugs at the scarf around her neck like it’s choking her, scowling. “It’s not like you know that stuff about me either. We haven’t been talking, I know that, but that’s not just _my_ fault. I mean, what about you? You think I don’t about _your_ other girl?”

“What?” says Steve, “Who, Robin? I told you, she’s—”

Nancy shakes her head, glaring. “Not her. I’m talking about whoever it is you text all the time.” Steve hand goes to his phone instinctually, and Nancy’s eyes turn less sharp, a little sadder. “Did you think I didn’t notice? You _never_ check your phone around me. Ever. At first, I thought it was _nice_ , like a gesture or something, to prove I had your full attention. But it buzzes constantly, and you never check, like you _know_ who it is, and you just don’t want _me_ to know, don’t want me to ask. I’m not stupid, Steve, and you’re not that nice.”

Steve nods, gives her that even as it breaks something inside him. He tries to keep his eyes on his boots until the blurriness fades, but he hears Nancy sigh and move further away, and he has to look up. She’s got her back to him, her face in her hands for a few more seconds before she sighs and shakes her head decisively, sniffs.

“God,” she says, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I don’t know what happened to us. You used to be my best friend, you know?”

Steve frowns. “Barb’s your best friend,” he disagrees, and Nancy rolls her eyes, a familiar thing.

“ _One_ _of_ my best friends, then,” she amends, frowning too.

“I don’t know, either,” Steve says softly, digging his hands into his pockets and grasping for any memory of what he’d planned to say, what feels like hours ago. “I love you, but I guess, after I saw you kissing him, and then you didn’t tell me about it—I guess, I started hating you a little, too.” 

Nancy nods and toes at the ground with her boot. “I’m sorry,” she says, so quietly Steve almost doesn’t hear it. “I should’ve told you, but. You loved me _so much_ , and I loved you, too, and I didn’t want to hurt you.”

 _You did anyway,_ Steve wants to say, but he used up the last of his courage getting this far, and he’s _so tired_ now. He just wants this thing to end, so he can go back to Heather’s room and cry into junk food and call Billy and look at more photos of star-stuff’s fat cat.

“I could’ve ended it, too,” he allows. Nancy looks up, her makeup running, her eyes red. “And I didn’t. And, you’re right, kind of. I have been texting someone. Not, like, romantically, but—I _like_ them, and I probably should’ve stopped when I realized that, and I didn’t.”

“So, what happens now?” Nancy says softly. It’s something about the trees and the growing dark and this ending of things—it feels like they should whisper.

“Now,” Steve says, just as quiet. “We just call it, I guess. We can be—done. And you can be with Jonathan Byers.” Saying his name out loud feels like breaking some kind spell and finally seeing things for what they are.

“And you can be with—your mystery girl,” says Nancy, nodding at his pocket, where his phone is still hidden away. 

“Maybe,” Steve says, “It’s—complicated.”

“Well,” says Nancy, wiping carefully at the corner of her eyes with her fingertips. “It’s a ten-minute walk back to campus. If you want, you could tell me about it? You know, since we’re just _friends_ , now?”

Steve shrugs a little, doesn’t quite look at her when he says, “I don’t know if I can do friends yet. I love you,” he adds, because it’s true, despite everything. “But I just need some time, I think.”

“Okay,” says Nancy. She hooks her arm tentatively through his and leads him back up the path. “Then just think of me as, I don’t know. An impartial third party.”

Steve hesitates still, not even knowing where to start or if he wants to. But maybe he _could_ use some outside perspective. No matter what they say about his _jury tampering_ , Robin and Heather are nearly as biased as he is at this point.

“Okay,” says Steve, finally. “It’s kind of a long story, though.”

“I don’t mind,” says Nancy.

“Okay. It started in the summer, I guess. I mean, really, it’s all Dustin’s fault.”

*-.*-.*-.

“Wow,” says Nancy as the library comes into sight. “That is—something.”

Steve sighs. He didn’t even have time to get into the Billy complication, but even the star-stuff thing on its own is _something_. “I know.”

“Look at the bright side, though,” she adds, settling against the stone wall and pulling Steve to lean beside her. “Now you can get to the fun part.”

“The fun part?”

“Yeah, I mean you’re basing everything off _You’ve Got Mail_ , right?”

“I’m really not.”

Nancy grins and knocks her shoulder against his. “Well, if you _were_ —we did the amicable breakup scene, right? So, now’s the part where you’re supposed to message this guy and tell him you want to meet. Somewhere with flowers and a dog, or something.” 

Steve grins back, trying to ignore the sudden flip of his stomach at the thought. “It doesn’t bother you? I mean—that it’s a guy?”

Nancy’s smiles a little softer and shrugs. “Honestly?” she says. “I’m not _totally_ shocked.”

“Really?” _Steve_ was pretty shocked. He still is, sometimes.

Nancy shrugs again. “You remember last year, like, orientation? There was that guy you absolutely _despised_ , or whatever.”

Steve’s stomach dips a little more. “Um—yeah, I think. Billy Hargrove?”

“Yeah,” says Nancy, eyeing him a little quizzically, a strange smile on her face. “You would _not_ shut up about him, for _weeks_. It was _constant_ —Billy did this and Billy did that. Plus, I mean,” her grin turns a little rueful. “I know you’re not supposed to judge that stuff on what people look like, but I always thought maybe he was—into guys. I guess I was kind of worried, a little, that it was one of those _thin line between love and hate_ situations.”

“Huh,” says Steve, hoping desperately that the flush on his face isn’t as hot and bright as it feels. He coughs and adds, “Actually, um. We’re sort of—friends, now.”

Nancy eyes sparkle in a way Steve’s learned to be wary of. “Really? How did _that_ happen?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “We have a few classes together, and he’s friends with Heather, Robin’s girlfriend? I don’t know—I guess it just happened. He’s, uh,” Steve tries to tamper down on the automatic smile that pulls at his lips. “He’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad, huh,” Nancy echoes, her own grin growing again. “Well. It seems like maybe if things don’t work out with this Star Boy guy, you have a pretty solid second option.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve smiles down at his boots.

“You deserve that, you know,” says Nancy softly, nudging at him until he looks up again. “I’m sorry that it took so long for us to sort our shit out, but I really just want you to be happy, Steve.”

“Thanks,” he says, and means it. “I want that for you, too.”

All things considered, it’s about the best way things could have gone. But as Steve watches Nancy head towards town a few minutes later, he still feels—hollow. Like a part of him that he knew and trusted for a long time is gone. He knows he shouldn’t be alone when he feels like this, should hang out with Robin and Heather for the rest of the day, but he really just wants to curl up in bed and listen to sad playlists until he cries himself to sleep.

Without really thinking about it, he pulls up their group chat as he starts towards his dorm.

**kingg_stevee [4:43]**

So we broke up

**venti_r_bucks**

aw babe <3

how do you feel? you want us to come get you?

**heathering_heights**

we queued up meg ryans entire filmography!

and we have tons of snacks!

**kingg_stevee**

Thanks guys seriously but I think I just want to chill in my room for tonight

Maybe we can hang out tomorrow?

**heathering_heights**

of course we can!!

**venti_r_bucks**

are you sure? we can just bring you some snacks and go if you want?

**kingg_stevee**

It’s okay really you guys should eat them

Enjoy Meg Ryan :)

Except, thirty minutes later, when Steve’s changed into his favorite sweats and curled up under his blankets, his headphones firmly in place, he realizes he doesn’t really want the day to end like this. And even though he’s not up for Robin and Heather’s particular brand of smothering affection, there is one person he wishes were here.

Instead of the Spotify app, he pulls up the contacts on his phone and hits call.

Billy picks up on the second ring. “Hey, dude,” he says, and Steve smiles reflexively. His voice comes out embarrassingly rough when he says,

“Hey. You busy?”

“Nope. What’s up?”

“Nothing, just.” Steve plays with an errant strand on his comforter and shrugs even though Billy can’t see him. _I wanted to hear your voice,_ he thinks, but—it’s too soon. Billy’s not a rebound, and if they start— _that_ —at all, it should be some other time, when Steve can see Billy’s eyes and his hair and his dimples. “Tell me something funny,” he says instead.

“Knock, knock,” says Billy, and Steve grins, rolling his eyes, but answering anyway,

“Who’s there?”

“Grill.”

“Grill, who?”

“Grill me, a cheese sandwich,” says Billy, and Steve can hear the dumb smile in his voice.

“Wow,” Steve laughs. “That was awful.”

“Want to hear another?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, rolling over to smile at the ceiling instead.

“Knock, knock,” says Billy, right before a real knock sounds at Steve’s door, the same way, _knock-knock._ Steve falters for only a second before he slides out of bed.

“Who’s there?” he says, pulling the door open before Billy can reply.

Even though Steve already knew it was him, the sight of Billy, grinning wide, his cheeks still red from the wind outside hits Steve like a punch to the gut. It’s just very, very clear to him in this moment, that this is the first time he’s ever been with Billy, anywhere, while they’re both single. The rattling of a paper bag in his face startles him out of the thought.

“Grilled cheese,” Billy says, keeping up the joke.

Steve grins back “You just did that one,” he says and takes the bag. “Wait, are these really grilled cheeses?”

“Yup,” says Billy, extremely pleased with himself, but Steve’s too happy to bug him about it.

“From Lincoln?” Steve _loves_ the grilled cheese at Lincoln, and they only have it once every two weeks. But Steve doesn’t remember telling Billy that, ever, _or_ star-stuff.

“Where else?” Billy shrugs, still smug.

“Those are my favorite,” Steve murmurs, hugging the bag closer to his chest.

“Really? Lucky guess,” Billy says, soft too.

“Do you want—” Steve starts before he checks over his shoulder at the state of his room and changes his mind. “You want to eat these downstairs and watch the game?”

Billy makes a face. “Sports?” he says, wrinkling his nose in a way that is not at all adorable, really.

Steve laughs, grabs his key, and shoves his sneakers on before he tugs his door closed behind him. “We’ll find something else,” he allows, thinking he’d watch just about anything right now, as long as it’s with Billy—and the sandwiches, of course.

*-.*-.*-.

The next day at the diner, when there’s a lull in Robin and Heather’s debate about whether it’s better to know all the languages in the world or be the next Einstein, Steve takes advantage of the quiet and says, “I think I’m gonna ask Star Boy to meet.”

They both turn from where they’re pressed awfully close across from him. “What?” says Robin.

Steve fiddles with the saltshaker and shrugs. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t have a girlfriend, so that’s not holding me back. I don’t know, I just think, maybe it’s time."

“Yay!” says Heather with a bright grin, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. Robin seems less enthused, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Where is this coming from?” she says.

Steve shrugs again. “I’ve just been thinking about something Nancy said—”

“Nancy?”

“Yeah. I told her about star-stuff, some of it at least, and she was saying, you know, according to rom com logic, this is when things should finally wrap up, you know?”

“Wow,” Robin scoffs and turns to Heather. “We’ve been trying to convince him to buy into the _You’ve Got Mail_ argument for _weeks_ , and _Nancy_ does it in a single conversation.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You did all the hard work, I know,” he says to them. “I guess I just realized, if even my ex thinks I should go for it, I guess that means I really should. And even if he doesn’t show, I don’t know…” Steve thinks of last night, waking up in front of the TV to find Billy slouched asleep next to him, his head just shy of Steve’s shoulder. “I think maybe it’ll be okay.”

“This is so exciting,” says Heather, still smiling wide. “How are you going to do it? You want us to help you come with what to say?”

Steve pulls his phone out and opens his chat with star-stuff, his hands already starting to sweat. He nods a little, swallows hard. “Yeah, I guess so. I think—I think I just need you to make me do it today. Like, right now, before we leave the diner. Otherwise I’ll never do it.”

“You got it, boss,” says Robin, snatching the phone out of his hands.

“Hey—”

“What do you think, babe?” she says to Heather, typing something into the chat. “I think we should go for straightforward, to the point. _Meet me tomorrow at four._ ”

“I think you need _some_ context,” Heather disagrees, leaning into Robin’s side to peer at the screen. “I mean, you have to preface the whole thing with the fact that you suspect he’s at student here at IU. Otherwise, you asking him to meet doesn’t make any sense.”

“You are so smart,” says Robin.

Steve lets them murmur to each other for a minute or two more, arguing about phrasing, before he says, “Hey, do I get any say in this?”

“No,” they both say in sync, their eyes never leaving the phone.

“Alright, give it,” says Steve after another minute, grabbing the phone to see what they’ve come up with.

**kingg_stevee**

Hey, I’ve been getting the feeling that we actually live pretty close to each other, and I think we should meet. If you want to, meet me tomorrow on the hill by the IU soccer fields, where those benches are, at 4pm. Let me know if you can’t, otherwise I’ll be there waiting for you.

“What do you think?” says Heather, when he just reads it a few times in silence.

Steve smiles at the them. “It’s great, it’s perfect. It would’ve taken me all day to come up with this.”

“We know,” says Robin. “All those rom-coms finally came in handy, huh,” she adds, nudging at Heather, who laughs.

“What did I say? All my training was for something.”

“So?” Robin says to him. “Are you going to send it, or do you want us to?”

“No, I can do it,” says Steve. He takes a big breath and lets it out, and then three more, and then finally hits send, making sure the message goes through before he clicks the screen shut and pushes the phone away from him on the table.

“Oh, god,” he says, while Robin and Heather make embarrassingly loud whoops.

“Excuse me,” says Robin, catching the eye of a passing waitress. “Could we get a banana fudge sundae and three spoons?” She grins back at Steve. “We’re celebrating.”

*-.*-.*-.

“What if he’s a serial killer, Steve?” Robin insists around three the next day, after Steve’s unsuccessful attempt to convince her and Heather to stay on campus while he meets Star Boy, instead of hiding in a bush nearby. 

“If he’s willing to put in this much work, he deserves to kill me,” Steve says, discarding shirt number five and digging around in his dresser for another.

“You know he’s not even going to see your shirt under your jacket, right?” Heather says from his bed. “You should really let me buy you a candle,” she adds. “You should at least borrow my Febreze before you bring him back here.”

“Nobody is bringing anybody to any secondary location, okay?” says Steve. “Not for murder, not for— _that_. We’re just going to meet, or you know. He’ll stand me up, and I’ll sit there crying for a while, and then it’ll just be like any other Sunday.”

It's been over twenty-four hours since Steve sent Star Boy the message, with no reply. Nothing. They haven’t gone a whole day between texts since—October, maybe. It’s not exactly inspiring a ton of confidence, and as helpful as they’re trying to be, neither are Robin and Heather.

Steve really wishes Billy were here. He’d know just the right, idiotic thing to say to make Steve laugh and forget how nervous he is. But this isn’t really something Billy can help with— _hopefully_ , it isn’t something Billy can help with. Hopefully, Billy’s equally nervous, trying to figure out what to wear to meet Steve on the hill by the fields.

“Alright,” says Steve thirty minutes later. It’s weird to be back on the library steps with Heather and Robin, so, so nervous, and for a completely different reason. “I’m going to walk over there now. I don’t want to wait anymore. And that way I’ll see him if he’s early.”

“It’s going to be great,” Heather says, smiling wide. “We’re so excited for you, and no matter what happens, you _have_ to tell us as soon as you know. Because I swear, Steve, if you spend the rest of the night hooking up with Billy instead of letting us know how the mystery ends, I’m gonna go crazy.”

“She means it,” says Robin, and this time it’s her that pulls her girlfriend away. “Good luck,” she calls as they head back to the dorms.

Steve makes it about halfway to the fields before he starts to spiral. By the time he’s sitting on the bench he and Star Boy are set to meet at, his hands are sweating, his leg won’t stop shaking, and he can barely breathe. He lasts about a minute before he has to tug his phone out.

It’s still too early, five minutes till four, but the suspense now is almost too much to take. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to message Star Boy again— _please,_ he’d write, _just let me know if you’re coming._ He’s thought about typing those same words about once every minute since yesterday. This whole thing just has him on a razor’s edge, so close to falling into a panic attack of unprecedented proportions.

Four comes and goes, then 4:05, 4:10. Steve tries to play different apps, tries to take a Buzzfeed quiz Dustin sent him a while ago, but his eyes won’t focus. His heart feels like a living thing in his throat. Even at 4:20, Steve thinks maybe Star Boy’s just running late, got caught in traffic somewhere. Maybe he was in an accident, maybe he witnessed a crime and had to give a statement downtown. Billy hasn’t texted Steve all day either—maybe he has the flu and he’s been sleeping for fifteen hours.

At 4:30, Steve feels the first prick of tears at the corners of his eyes. Stop it, he thinks. He can wait. He can wait twenty more minutes, thirty max, and then retreat to his room and cry in peace, for a day or two. By 4:40, Steve’s given up on waiting, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them to hide the red of his face and the growing wetness in his eyes. He’s gone through pretty much every stage of grief, and all he can think about by 4:45 is Robin and Heather and what he’s gonna tell them—how sad they’ll be, how pitying.

He's thinking about that, and how he’ll ever be able to look Billy in the eyes after this, when there’s the sound of boots crunching on the melting snow. Steve curls tighter into himself, hunching his shoulders to look as pathetic as possible, so whoever it is will hurry away—it’s not _that_ unusual, after all, to find students crying in random places around campus.

Then somebody says, “Hey,” and even though Steve knows he looks awful, and pathetic, he looks up.

And there’s Billy, panting a little, like he ran here, looking stricken at the sight of Steve sobbing on a park bench. Even though Steve should probably be relieved, all he can feel is a terrible, heavy swirl of shame and fury.

“Where have you been?” he demands, his voice cracking embarrassingly. When Billy doesn’t offer some immediate explanation, or apology, just stares at Steve with wide, worried eyes, Steve stands and stalks closer. “I’ve been sitting here for _forty-five minutes_ ,” he goes on, shaking with anger, and something else, maybe shock. “I was gonna leave soon. Billy— _where have you_ _been_?”

“I—” Billy starts, stuffing his hands in his pockets and swallowing hard. “I didn’t know if I was gonna come.”

Steve has to laugh at that, though it comes out too sharp, too wet, too much like a sob. “You _didn’t know_? Great, that’s—that’s great. God,” Steve scrubs at his face, the reality of this moment hitting him—how he’s losing everything, _both_ of them—they’ll never come back from this. “ _Why_?” he means to demand, but it comes out more like a plea. “Why didn’t you know?”

Billy steps closer still, and Steve gets a better look at his face behind his scarf, how pale he is. “Because,” he says, somehow just as urgent as Steve. “You _hated_ me. For so long, you hated me, and I don’t know why you changed your mind, but. The more I thought about it, I just realized I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t—” he swallows again, shakes his head. Steve could almost swear he sees tears in Billy’s eyes, too. “I love you so much,” he says. Steve feels it like lightning, in his fingertips, down his spine. “And I just don’t think I could take it, if I came here, if you found out who I was and you were— _disappointed_ ,” he scrapes the last word out like it burns him, and Steve can’t hold himself back anymore. He stumbles closer to Billy, clutches at his jacket because he might really faint.

 _How could you think that,_ he wants to say, _when I love you so much, when I love you_ both _so much._

Instead, because he’s an idiot, and he feels genuinely lightheaded from the whiplash of this whole ordeal, he says, “Have you seen _You’ve Got Mail_?”

Billy blinks at the sudden subject change. “No?”

Steve blinks back, somehow shocked by this. “You haven’t?”

“No? That’s the one with Meg Ryan, right?”

Steve laughs and wipes the leftover tears from his eyes before goes on, “This would make a lot more sense if you’d seen it, but. Billy,” he makes sure Billy meets his eyes, knows how serious he is. “I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you _so_ _badly_.”

Slowly, like it sinks in word by word, the desperation leaves Billy’s eyes and his lips twitch into a smile. “Wow,” he says, “I really wish you hadn’t told me that was from a movie.”

Steve laughs again and shuffles closer so he can press his face into Billy’s shoulder to smother it. He feels Billy’s hands come up to rest on his hips. “Sorry,” Steve says, breathless, and then looks back up at Billy to add, “I mean it, though. I really wanted it to be you. I don’t know what I would have done if it wasn’t.”

“Yeah?” Billy asks softly. With the grief of the last forty minutes finally fading, Steve starts to notice how close they really are, how the setting sun turns Billy’s skin golden.

“Yeah,” he says back, just as soft. He lets himself just look for a while, at Billy’s blue, blue eyes and the way he’s looking back, like he can’t quite believe they’re here either.

“So,” says Steve after endless minutes, long enough for the sun to start to dip below the tree line. “Are you going to kiss me, or?”

Billy blinks a few times and then smiles like Steve’s never seen, _so_ happy. He tugs Steve closer by his hips. “Yeah,” he says again, so soft it’s barely a breath, and then he doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips to Steve’s.

It should be weird, the first time Steve’s kissing a guy, the first time he’s kissing _Billy_ , his ex-nemesis. But Billy’s so gentle, so warm, and the taste of him, when he opens his mouth to let Steve in, is so distracting, Steve just forgets. Forgets that it should be weird, forgets that he’s never had this before.

When Billy finally pulls back to breathe, he doesn’t go far, just leans his forehead against Steve’s. “Wow,” someone murmurs, and it’s only when Billy grins, wide and pleased, that Steve realizes it was him and flushes.

“Good?” Billy murmurs back, his breath warm on Steve’s face. Steve presses his fingertips first to the dimple in Billy’s cheek, and then to his smile, wanting to feel it. Billy kisses at his fingers.

“Good,” Steve echoes, giddy, and also exhausted. He’s gone through pretty much every emotion known to man in the last hour, and he feels shaky with it. Billy must think it’s cold, because he pulls back a little more, frowns, and says,

“It’s getting dark. Wanna head back to the dorms?”

Steve nods and can’t help but grin like a crazy person when Billy takes his hand on the walk back, lacing their fingers before pulling both their hands into his pocket. They don’t talk much, but they don’t need to. The air feels settled, peaceful, like a monumental fault in the universe was finally set right.

*-.*-.*-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kiss!
> 
> The rating will change in the next chapter so y'all can look forward to that lol
> 
> Stay safe and let me know what you think!


	9. A Thousand Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, what’s my fortune?” Billy murmurs close to Steve’s ear, just for the joy of watching him roll his eyes and smile.
> 
> “I don’t know,” Steve teases back. “But I think it’s looking up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first smut scene I have ever written, and I'll tell ya, I have so much respect for smut writers. Anyway, don't @ me, I did my best, but it's still so soft bc that is who I am, as a person. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_I have died every day waiting for you / Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you / for a thousand years / I'll love you for a thousand more_

_“A Thousand Years” – Christina Perri_

Billy lets the door close behind them without looking, too eager to see Steve’s first impressions of his room. Steve tugs his boots off distractedly before he wanders over to Billy’s desk, captivated by the mess of crystals and tarot cards and bits of sage.

“This is…” he starts and trails off, reaching to play with the hanging glass pendants Billy has strung up over his window.

“Weird?” Billy offers, feeling a rare burst of self-consciousness. He’s always been proud of the way magick things feel to him, and if anyone else thought he was odd for keeping them around, it was only because they were boring, and he was special. But Steve is special too, and Billy’s not sure what he’ll do if all this scares him away.

He doesn’t have to worry for long. Steve turns to face Billy again with a wide smile, his eyes sparkling with something like awe. “Awesome,” he breathes. “Billy, this is so…” He turns in a small circle, taking in the desk again, and the walls cluttered with posters and constellation diagrams and the herbs still drying from home. “It’s amazing. It’s exactly how I pictured.”

That makes Billy raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Steve grins, meeting his eyes again. “I mean, for star-stuff.” Something about Steve saying that name out loud, in this space, makes it realer, makes Billy pause and think _oh, fuck, Steve Harrington is here, in my room, with me._ It’s all Billy’s wanted since he was nine years old, and now that the moment’s finally here, he’s frozen with shock.

Steve seems less bothered, or at least less still. He explores for a while, running his fingertips over Billy’s different plants and rocks and gems. Finally, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed. He must realize Billy’s been too quiet, because he shuffles back, a little nervous, and says, “This okay?”

Billy doesn’t really know what _this_ he means, but there’s nothing about Steve, here, on his bed, in real life, that _isn’t_ okay, so he hurries to reassure him. “Yeah,” he says roughly, almost tripping over his feet in his rush to get closer, which makes Steve grin. “Of course.” He sits beside Steve, not wanting to crowd him, but their thighs still end up pressed together.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He reaches to hold Billy’s hand in both of his, traces the lines on his palm. Every gentle swipe of Steve’s finger sends sparks along Billy’s skin.

“So, what’s my fortune?” Billy murmurs close to Steve’s ear, just for the joy of watching him roll his eyes and smile.

“I don’t know,” Steve teases back. “But I think it’s looking up.” He reaches a hand to the back of Billy’s neck, slowly, like he’s giving him a chance to move away, as if he would. Billy lets Steve pull him close, lets the kiss start gentle, like the last one, just the brush of their lips. But Steve lets him in so easy, and the room is so warm, the bed so soft, Billy can’t help but press closer, closer. Somehow, between one moment and the next, Billy’s curled over Steve, who’s stretched-out beneath him, who hooks a leg over Billy’s to bring him closer still.

After an hour or three or fifteen, Billy moves from Steve’s lips to the edge of his jaw, his neck. Steve keeps making these soft keening sounds. Billy doesn’t even think he’s aware of it, but if he keeps it up much longer, Billy’s gonna lose it. He bites a tiny bruise into Steve’s skin, low by his collar in case he wants to hide it, and then pulls back to give them both a moment.

Billy takes in Steve’s hazy eyes, his red lips, and the flush that travels from high in his cheeks down his neck. He’s so beautiful. Billy rubs a hand down Steve’s side, and it’s only then that he feels the tremble under Steve’s skin and frowns a little. He rubs his thumb along Steve’s cheek to get his attention and says, lowly, “Hey, you okay?”

Steve hums, reaches to draw a knuckle along Billy’s jaw. “Yeah,” he murmurs back. “Really okay.”

Billy smiles at that, can’t help himself, leans to ghost his lips over Steve’s. He pulls back after only a second, adding, “You’re shaking.”

Steve’s flush deepens, which Billy didn’t think was possible. He clears his throat a little and shifts under Billy. “Yeah, I’m—uh. It’s just, _really good_ , you know? Just, give me a second.”

Billy smirks, finally cluing in. It’s not like he didn’t know that already, can feel Steve hard and hot against him. He wasn’t going to mention it if Steve didn’t.

“It’s funny,” Steve says a minute later, playing with the ends of Billy’s curls. True to his request, Billy’s been giving him a break, just resting his head on Steve’s chest so he can hear his heart, feel the way his breath moves through his lungs.

“Hmm?” He could fall asleep like this so easy.

“I don’t know, I guess I just thought it’d be weirder— _this_ , I mean.” Billy shifts and leans up on his elbows again, so he can look at Steve’s face when he asks,

“Cause I’m a guy?”

Steve shrugs minutely and rubs his fingers along the stubble on Billy’s chin, his cheek. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

“ _Is_ it weird?” Billy asks, pressing into Steve’s touch.

Steve shakes his head, his hair curling on Billy’s pillowcase—and Billy can’t wait to fall asleep tonight, on these sheets that smell like both of them.

“That’s the thing—it’s _not_. At all. It’s stupid but…” Steve trails off, shifts his gaze away.

“But?” Billy prods, leaning down to kiss the question into Steve’s neck.

“It kind of feels— _right_ , you know? Like. Like I’ve just been waiting for this—for _you_.” Billy has to clench his eyes shut against the startling wave of affection that bursts through him then. Gold and lilac explode behind his eyelids, and he presses his face into Steve’s neck to grasp at composure. Steve laughs a little, nervous sound. “Stupid, right?” he says, tugging at Billy’s hair.

Billy leaves one more kiss under Steve’s jaw before he pulls back to meet his gaze. “No,” Billy says. “It’s not stupid. I’ve been waiting for you, too.”

For anyone else, it would just be a line, but it isn’t for them, and even though Steve can’t know how true it is, he seems to get that, a little. His smile at Billy’s words is small but bright.

“I love you, you know,” he says, making Billy’s heart clench and bang. “I can’t remember if I said it, after you did, but I do. I love you, so much. And not just star-stuff.” He cups Billy’s face in both hands, catches the tears just forming in the corner of Billy’s eyes with his thumbs. “ _You_ ,” he murmurs, sealing that word with his lips against Billy’s, like a promise.

“I love you,” Billy whispers when they pull back to breathe. He likes the way those words sound in the taut air between them.

“Yeah?” Steve whispers back, his smile turning teasing. “How much?”

Billy responds with his grin against Steve’s, licking into his mouth and reveling again at how easy Steve opens for him, lets him take the lead. Steve moans softly and tugs at Billy’s hair for minute before his hands fall back against the pillow. Billy nips at the space where Steve’s neck and jaw meet to make him gasp that way he does. Then he reaches to find Steve’s hand, curls their fingers together and presses down, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to let Steve feel him. It makes Steve moan the loudest he has all night, and Billy smirks into his neck.

“So good,” Steve gasps, squeezing Billy’s hand back. “Why is it— _ah_ —so good?”

Billy figures he means it as a rhetorical question, but he can’t help but kiss up Steve’s neck, to his jaw, his cheeks, his lips. “How long have I known you, baby?” he murmurs into Steve’s ear. “You think I don’t know how to love you?” He laces his other fingers through Steve’s and presses both of his hands into the pillow, higher above his head. Steve arches up into him, letting Billy feel again just how hard he is.

“Billy,” Steve gasps, “I—I’m gonna—I,” he breaks off and clenches his eyes shut, trembling again under Billy.

“Yeah?” Billy kisses at his neck, that spot that drives him crazy. “It’s okay, Stevie, come on. Want to see you.” Billy pulls back just enough to watch Steve’s face, pressing his thigh down against him. “Come for me, baby,” Billy says.

There’s nothing in the world like Steve then, the way he gasps and shudders and comes just because Billy told him to. It’s better than adrenaline, better than drugs, better even than Steve’s honey dream-happiness. This is Steve’s pleasure, real and blinding, because of _Billy_. This close, Billy can feel it like aftershocks of an earthquake, echoing down his own spine.

Steve’s still trembling when Billy shifts off of him, onto his back so he can pull Steve flush against his side. Steve curls into him instinctively, hiding his shaky breaths in Billy’s chest. Billy just holds him, revels in that, too, all he’s wanted, all his life—Steve in his arms, warm and safe and pleased. He cards his fingers gently through Steve’s mussed up hair, presses a kiss to his forehead absently whenever he feels like it. Billy has no idea how long it is before Steve sighs and rolls a little further away.

“Well,” he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “That was embarrassing.”

Billy’s gut plummets, sudden and jarring. He thinks of how new this is for Steve, and how quick everything happened. He swallows around the lump in his throat and asks, “What do you mean?”

Steve must catch some of the panic in Billy’s voice because he shifts to lean on an elbow and looks at Billy with a small, rueful smile. “I just came in my pants like a high schooler.”

Billy tucks an errant strand of hair behind Steve’s ear. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says honestly, even as Steve scoffs.

“If you say so,” he says, before he shifts closer to Billy again and adds, “Do you want me to—?” he glances down at Billy and ticks an eyebrow up. Billy shakes his head, shifting on his side so they’re face to face.

“It’s okay,” he says, reaching to swipe a thumb at Steve’s jaw, unable to help himself—he just needs to be _touching_ Steve, all the time now, preferably for the rest of their lives. “I already…” he trails off, letting Steve get the gist.

Steve blinks in surprise. “Really? When—”

“When you did,” says Billy, rubbing a hand down Steve’s side and squeezing at his hip. “What part of _hottest thing I’ve ever seen_ don’t you get?” He smirks when Steve flushes again and tries to hide his smile in the pillow.

“Oh,” he mumbles. “That’s um—that’s good.”

They both shift a little closer in some silent agreement, Steve hiding his face in Billy’s neck while Billy curls an arm around his back, keeping him close.

After minutes of warm, glowing silence, Steve pulls back and says, a little halting, “Um, it’s getting kind of—do you think I could—borrow something?”

“Yeah, of course,” Billy hurries to say, already shifting around Steve and off the bed. He strips off his own jeans as quickly as possible, tugging on new boxers and sweats before he grabs a clean pair of both for Steve. Billy takes a long minute to adjust the pillows and slip under the covers, so by the time he risks a glance back up, Steve’s changed too and is awkwardly bundling his dirty pants, placing them by his boots near the door. He stills when he turns around and catches Billy staring, a flush lighting up his face again. All pink and shy in Billy’s clothes, he’s the prettiest thing in the world. Billy wants him back in his arms, so he holds out a hand and says, lowly, “Come here, baby.”

Steve’s on the bed again in a blink, under the covers and tucked under Billy’s chin, sighing softly as he shifts closer. He’s got both hands pressed to Billy’s chest, playing with the worn fabric of Billy’s t-shirt.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” he mumbles sleepily after a while.

“What is?” Billy says back, just as quiet.

“I don’t know. Just—like, two hours ago I didn’t even know if you’d show up, if you were who I thought, or if you’d like me back—and now we’re just…” He looks up at Billy through his eyelashes, rubbing at a mark he left on Billy’s neck.

Billy hums and presses a thumb to the spot behind Steve’s ear that makes him shiver. “I guess it was kind of—fast. We can go slower,” he shifts back a little to put some space between them. “If you want. I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Steve says quickly, shuffling to fill the gap and press closer again. “No, that’s what’s weird. It _doesn’t_ feel weird, it doesn’t feel fast. I want you,” he adds in almost a whisper. “I want this.”

Billy smiles, kissing Steve’s eyebrow and then just resting there for a beat, breathing in the smell of Steve and his sweet shampoo. “If you think about it,” Billy murmurs, “it’s not like we just _met_ or anything. I mean, we’ve kind of been going on dates with your friends for weeks.”

“Oh my god, those weren’t _dates_ ,” Steve rolls his eyes, like this is some old argument of theirs, and then he bolts up, suddenly. “Oh, _shit_.” He fumbles around in the covers for a bit, then leans over the side of the bed to peer at the floor.

“What’s wrong?” says Billy, keeping a hand in Steve’s shirt so he doesn’t tumble off.

When Steve appears again and comes back to settle in Billy’s arms, he’s got his phone out, typing something. “I totally forgot, I was supposed to text Robin and Heather, so they know what happened.” He grins a little up at Billy. “They’ll be really happy.”

“Yeah?” Billy says, smiling back reflexively.

Steve nods and looks back at the screen. “Yeah, we’ve been trying to solve this for weeks, you know. The _Mystery of Star Boy_.”

“ _Star Boy_?” Billy echoes, pleased beyond reason at the title.

Steve rolls his eyes again. “Don’t, god. Robin started it, it’s so dumb.”

“No, I love it,” Billy assures him, pressing close, needing to kiss him again and remind himself, over and over, that this is real.

Steve gets distracted, but only for a minute before he pulls back, breathless. “Well, tough luck,” he says, finding his phone. “I’m not calling you that anymore.”

“No? Come on,” Billy teases. Steve rolls over to show Billy his back, ostensibly so he can concentrate long enough to finish his text to the girls. Billy just curls around him, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder to watch.

“Nope,” Steve murmurs as he types. Billy drops the argument for now, too busy reading the conversation.

**venti_r_bucks [5:01]**

hey dingus let us know how it went !!

**heathering_heights [5:02]**

yes pls!!! and also that you’re ok! <3

**venti_r_bucks [5:37]**

totally get it if you guys are too busy to look at your phones right now

but seriously let us know if your ok

**venti_r_bucks [5:41]**

also if your not ok we totally understand if you want some space

but text us so we know your alive

**heathering_heights [6:12]**

ok we’re srsly getting kind of worried steve !!

if you’ve been hooking up with billy this whole time we’re gonna be mad!

happy for you obviously but so pissed!!

“You guys are really close, huh,” Billy says into Steve’s shoulder. Steve presses back against him and nods a little.

“Yeah, I guess so. I told Robin about you a few weeks ago and she just, like, adopted me, kind of.”

Billy thinks of the GSA meetings he’s been to, how good Robin always is at ferreting out the newbies, the ones who might need a little extra help. “I like them,” Billy murmurs. “They love you.” That much Billy could tell even from the few times he’s hung out with them.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs back. Billy watches as he types and finally sends,

**kingg_stevee [6:22]**

Sorry! I’m alive!

Just got distracted

Billy snorts at that, and Steve elbows him a little. “We should send them a pic,” Billy says against Steve’s jaw. “You know, as, like, proof of life, or whatever.”

Steve snorts this time but switches over to the camera app—so the photos will last, Billy knows. He grins into Steve’s skin as he turns on the front camera, and Steve takes the first photo like that—Billy turned toward him, his smile only visible in the crinkle of his eyes, Steve’s own smile small, but real. They take over a dozen, sometimes both looking at the camera, but mostly not, mostly too caught up in each other, and in the mesmerizing fact of this new reality, the two of them finally together.

Steve pulls up Instagram again and sends them the first one, Billy’s favorite too.

**kingg_stevee**

*sent a photo*

Star Boy says hi

**venti_r_bucks**

god we were this close to calling the cops steven !!!!

but tg

thot you guys would never get your shit together

**heathering_heights**

omgg!!! yay!!

hi billy!

so happy for you guys <3

Billy can feel Steve’s cheeks bunch up from his grin. He’s had about as much as he can take of this not kissing business, so he tugs Steve’s phone out of his hands and pushes at him till he lies flat again. He’s biting at Steve’s neck when Steve asks, breathless, “When you said you knew me, did you mean—like, how you knew about the boy at work?”

Billy stills and pulls back before he asks, carefully, “What?"

Steve’s eyes are dark and unreadable. He bites at his lip a little before going on, “I mean—you’re _so_ _good_ at this, Billy. It’s like you know just where to—like you _know_ me, what I like. So, I was just wondering if it’s because you _know things,_ sometimes. Like, that boy with the allergies, or my history presentation?”

Billy swallows hard and shifts away. He didn’t really want to have this conversation today, not for a while, if ever, but he should’ve known they’d have to. He _knew_ he wasn’t as subtle as should’ve been, but he’d hoped Steve would write it off like everyone else does. Should’ve figured if anyone would connect the dots, it’d be Steve.

Billy lies on his back, so they’re both staring at his ceiling, where, ten feet or so away, Steve’s bed sits, in just the same space. “It’s complicated,” Billy mumbles after a while, cursing himself for not planning what to say. He’s never let himself think this through, never let himself hope they’d get this far. Billy feels Steve shift next to him so he’s on his side, staring at Billy’s profile.

“That’s okay,” Steve says softly.

Billy clenches his eyes shut and tries to just get it out, without thinking too hard about all he could lose if he screws this up. “I was gonna tell you,” he starts roughly. “I swear, I just—I kind of wanted to wait until you were, like, too in love with me to freak out about it.”

“Hey,” says Steve. Billy feels fingers at his chin, turning his face. When he opens his eyes, Steve’s expression isn’t dark anymore, just worried, a little, but warm. “I am in love with you,” he goes on, soft and sure. “And I can’t promise I won’t freak out at all, but. I’ve thought about this a lot, Star Boy,” he adds with a teasing grin. “You’re not going to scare me away, okay? I’m here with you.”

When Steve leans down to kiss him, Billy’s helpless to it, lets him even as his heart pounds with the gravity of this moment—there’s only one other person in the world who knows even half of what Billy can See and do, and Billy knew her for seven years before he told her.

Steve pulls back after only a second. “Okay?” he says, rubbing a knuckle over Billy’s cheek. “You don’t have to tell me right now. If you want to wait, that’s okay, too.”

“No,” says Billy. Steve should know what he’s getting into, before they really can never come back from this. “No, I want to tell you.”

“Okay,” says Steve, settling on his side again, putting those few inches back between them. He waits for Billy to say something else, but there are just too many ways to start. Billy’s brain is a mess of tangled narratives—does he tell it chronologically? Should he start with the first dream, with Steve, scared and lost at eight years old, or ease him in with the times he already knows about—that boy, and Steve’s presentation?

“Did you know about us?” Steve asks softly, when it seems like Billy might not say a thing all night. “Did you know we’d—be like this?”

“No,” Billy says. “I _hoped_ —but I didn’t know. It doesn’t work like that, I don’t—I never See anything if it has to do with me.”

“So, you didn’t know we’d meet?” Steve almost sounds disappointed, which makes Billy smiles, just a little.

“No, not exactly.” Billy just orchestrated it to the best of his waking ability.

Steve hums and plays with one of Billy’s curls absently. “How do you _see_ things? With, like, tarot cards?”

“No,” Billy huffs, “I dream about things, and then they come true. And, sometimes, if it’s bad, I try to stop them.”

“That’s what happened with the boy at work,” Steve says. “You dreamed that he’d—die?”

“Yeah,” Billy scrapes out. That was one of the worst dreams he’s ever had of Steve, level ten for sure, right up there with the Halloween fire and that very first night, when he was so small and cold and terrified. “Yeah, that—sucked. You were so—” he swallows around the echo of Steve’s heartache, his guilt and grief. “You—uh. That was really hard on you.”

Steve makes a pained kind of sound, and closes the gap between them again, pressing into Billy’s side, his lips gentle on Billy’s temple. “It didn’t happen, though. Cause of _you_. Thank you,” he whispers, and Billy has to clench his eyes shut at the sting of tears that hits him, at that.

Steve stays close as Billy tells the rest of it, how he saw Steve’s shirt getting ruined with coffee before his big talk, how his night might’ve ended on Halloween. He tells him about all the other close calls, smaller things Billy’s tried to help Steve avoid, as carefully and subtly as possible.

“Sometimes,” Billy says, snorting a little at how ridiculous this is going to sound. “When I couldn’t think of an easy way to tell you, something that would make sense, I’d—uh. I’d take the shirt you were wearing in the dream out of your laundry, when it was in the dryer, so it couldn’t happen.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Steve says, pulling back to stare at Billy, gob smacked, before he presses close again to giggle like mad into Billy’ shoulder. “That was you? I can’t _believe_ that was you,” Steve shudders with laughter, and Billy lets the shivers of his joy ghost over his skin. “Wait till I tell Robin,” Steve mutters, wiping the tears from his lashes. His eyes, when he meets Billy’s again, are sparkling. “She’s gonna lose it. She never believed me, I _told_ her—shirts don’t just disappear like that. Do you still have them?”

Billy can feel his face heat a little as he shrugs. “Yeah, um. They’re in my closet, I’ll give ‘em back, I meant to, I just. Um—forgot.”

“Forgot, huh,” Steve teases. “It’s okay, I know you had a super, embarrassing, stalker crush on me.” Billy huffs but doesn’t argue, because he’s not exactly wrong. “Why _did_ you?” Steve asks a beat later, curious.

“Why did I, what, steal the shirts?”

“No, I mean—if you didn’t _See_ us meeting or falling in love or whatever, why did you like me so much? I was pretty shitty to you,” he mutters the last part like he’s embarrassed, and it sends a wave of fondness through Billy—that’s Steve, still feeling bad about _one_ thing he said, weeks ago.

“Well, uh,” Billy starts, knowing this is probably the only thing he _has_ to tell Steve about, but. It’s just so fucking weird, and if _anything_ was going to send Steve running for the hills, no matter how much he thinks he loves Billy, it would be this. “Okay,” he says taking a breath in preparation—just rip it off, like a Band-Aid. “When I said I didn’t see us, that was true. I never saw you with me.”

“Okay…”

“But I Saw _you_. A lot. Like, more than anyone else. And—I’ve Seen you for a long time.”

“Like, before we met?” Steve asks slowly.

“Yeah,” Billy says. “Before we met.”

“Did you…” Steve starts, messing with Billy’s shirt instead of looking at him. “Did you come here, to Indiana, because of me?”

Billy swallows again, knowing how _genuinely_ , stalker crazy it sounds. “Yeah. I, um. I Saw which schools you were applying to, so I applied to them too, and just waited to figure out which one you’d choose.”

“But, why?” says Steve. “You love San Francisco, you love your family. You really liked me _so much_ , just from a few dreams, that you came all the way here?”

It reminds Billy, suddenly, of Max, and how Billy was never able to get her to understand the fundamental role Steve plays in everything Billy is.

He shifts on his side so they’re facing each other again, so he can look Steve in the eyes when he says, “I didn’t have just a _few dreams_ about you. The dreams—they started when I was nine. And I’ve dreamed about you every two weeks, at _least_ , since then. You were the first thing I Saw,” he adds softly.

“Really?” Steve asks, just as soft, and disbelieving.

“Yeah,” says Billy. “You were _so scared_. You were lost somewhere, in the woods, and it was getting dark, and you kept thinking, _I don’t want to die alone._ I’d never had a dream like that before, but I knew, I could just _tell_ it was real. I woke up and I didn’t know if you were okay, and I was _so_ worried. Ever since then, I’ve just wanted you to be _safe_.” 

Steve just stares at him, and Billy tries to tamp down on the panic he feels rising in his gut. But slowly, slowly, Steve starts to smile. He presses closer still. “I remember that,” he murmurs into Billy’s skin. “I was on a fieldtrip to some pumpkin patch. We were playing hide and seek, but I hid too long and the bus left without me. I thought I could find my way back, I don’t know why. But I got really lost. Yeah, god, I forgot about that,” he laughs a little huff of sound. “That was a really shitty day.”

“I know,” Billy murmurs back.

“So, you can read my thoughts, when you dream about me?”

“Sort of,” Billy says, letting his arm curl behind Steve’s back when it seems like he’s not about to run for the hills yet. “Everyone thinks differently, you know? Some people think in sentences, some people think in, like, images. It can be hard to understand, sometimes. But, with you, it’s always been easy.”

“That’s so crazy,” Steve says. “So, you’ve had dreams where you read my thoughts, every two weeks, since you were nine.”

“Uh,” Billy starts, knowing it’s weird enough as it is, but. “Actually, it was every two weeks before we met. Now, it’s more like—a few times a week?”

“A few times a week,” Steve echoes dumbly. Billy keeps expecting him to spring up, to make some excuse to leave, but as shocked as Steve seems, he never moves from his spot in Billy’s arms. He just takes it all in, playing with Billy’s hair.

“So, that’s why you love me?” he asks after a while. “Because you See me in dreams?”

“I _know_ you,” Billy murmurs. “ _That’s_ why I love you. But I only fell _in love_ with you after we started talking. I really never knew, that you would like me, like that.” Steve just hums, thinking, but Billy can’t take not knowing anymore. “Does it freak you out?” he asks.

Steve laughs again, almost at himself. “It feels like it should, you know? It’s so _unbelievable_ and strange and—and _crazy_. It should probably really freak me out, but,” he meets Billy’s eyes again, a smile tugging at his lips as he traces a finger over Billy’s. “I just think it’s weirdly—romantic?” 

Billy lets himself start to grin back. “Yeah?” he mumbles against Steve’s fingertips.

Steve shakes his head like they’re both crazy, and maybe they are. “Yeah, I mean. You said you don’t dream about other people as often as you do about me, right?” Billy nods. “And you understand my thoughts better than anyone else’s?” Billy nods again. Steve’s smile grows. “It’s like—you were made for me.”

Billy’s heart is dangerously full, and it makes him laugh too, dizzy with relief. “No way,” he teases. “I was here first, dude. _You_ were made for _me_.”

“Okay,” Steve allows, grinning wide. “I’m fine with that.”

“Good,” says Billy. “Cause you’re stuck with me now. Like, I hope that’s clear.”

Steve tries to nod back seriously, but his lips quirk up at the edges. “Crystal, dude. Right back at ya.”

Billy’s happiness is already enough to send him floating through the ceiling, but with the little tremors of Steve’s joy that keep zinging up his spine, he feels like he might really explode. He needs to _do_ something with it, so he presses Steve flat on his back again, curling over him the way he likes. He’s just about to concentrate on Steve’s neck, when Steve tugs at his shirt and says, breathless, “Wait, wait.”

Billy pulls back immediately. “You okay? You wanna stop?”

“No,” Steve says. “I just didn’t get to see you last time, I want—” He pulls at Billy’s shirt again, harder this time, pushing the fabric up Billy’s stomach. “Can you—can we?”

“Yeah?” Billy murmurs. “You want to?”

“ _Please_ ,” Steve begs, barely a breath. Billy feels like Steve could ask for anything in the world, in that voice, and Billy would give it to him.

“Yeah, baby.” Billy tugs his shirt over his head in record time, and he’s still trying to help Steve out of his when he reaches for the waist of Billy’s sweatpants.

“Can we?” he says again. Billy just groans and shimmies out of them. It feels like two seconds flat before they’re pressed back together, every part of Steve hot and bare against Billy. He’s just drunk on Steve for a while, the heat of him, the way he tastes right by the dip of his collarbone. Steve whines and arches into him, and Billy pulls back, wanting to see.

He leans back and settles on his knees above Steve, nearly straddling his waist but not quite touching. Steve’s flush really does go all the way down, an irresistible pink that leads straight down his chest to his hips. Billy can’t help but follow its path, pressing his lips first to Steve’s shoulder, then his nipple, and then the quivering softness by his belly.

“Billy, _please_ ,” Steve gasps after countless minutes. When Billy looks up from his handiwork, nipping marks into the skin by his hips, Steve’s hiding his face in his elbow, like he’s trying to muffle his moans. Billy can’t have that. He shifts back up and takes Steve’s wrists in his hands, presses them over his head.

“None of that, baby,” Billy says lowly, kissing at Steve’s jaw and cheeks and lips. “Wanna hear you.”

“Please, can you—” Steve cuts himself off with a whine, pressing his hips into Billy’s. Billy can feel the throb of him trapped between them.

“Yeah,” Billy says softly. “I know what you need, sweetheart.” Billy keeps Steve’s wrists trapped with one hand, reaching with the other to wrap around Steve’s length. Steve gasps so loudly when Billy finally touches him, and Billy can’t help it, he needs to taste it, that gasp, Steve’s desperation.

Steve’s so gone already, opens so sweetly for him. “Tell me, baby,” Billy says into the barely-there space between their lips. “Tell me how it feels.”

“ _So good_ ,” Steve breathes, “I’m not gonna—last, Billy—I— _please_.” Billy presses ever closer, shifting his grip to take them both in his hand, as much as he can. He has to let Steve’s wrists go for balance, but Steve never moves them, just arches up against Billy, crying out at the new sensation, the hot slide of them together.

“Billy,” Steve gasps, just that, just his name, over and over. “Billy, Billy.”

“That’s it, baby,” Billy breathes back, his hips stuttering as he gets close too. “Doing so good, Stevie. Come on, let me see you.”

Steve comes with a near silent gasp. The shudder of his breath, the way he finally moves a hand from over his head to pull Billy closer by his hair, sends Billy tumbling after him, coming only moments later. He tries not to collapse right onto Steve, but it’s a close thing. He shifts so he’s only half on him, using a trembling hand to brush Steve’s damp hair away from his face.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, overly aware suddenly that, besides the warmup earlier, this was Steve’s real first time with a guy. Maybe they should’ve talked about it more? Billy’s not sure what the protocol is supposed to be. His own first time wasn’t exactly memorable, a quick hand job in the bathroom of some shitty night club, years ago.

Steve just mumbles in reply, more sound than words, and shifts closer. Billy takes it as a good sign and throws an arm around Steve’s middle, presses soft kisses to the parts of Steve’s face he can reach. He lets them just lie there and breathe, until the sticky mess becomes too gross to bear. Billy ignores Steve’s whine of protest as he leans over him to grab one of their shirts from the floor. He cleans them up with gentle efficiency and tosses the shirt in the direction of his hamper, pulling Steve in to settle back against his chest. He tucks his knees into the backs of Steve’s, reveling at the way they fit together. Steve hums in content like he’s thinking it too, hugging Billy hand to his chest.

“’m hungry,” Steve mumbles, ages later, the first intelligible thing he’s said. Billy laughs softly and kisses at his ear.

“Yeah? Wanna get something to eat?”

Steve presses closer and sighs. “Nap first,” he murmurs, and Billy’s not about to argue with that. Sleeping like this, with Steve warm and safe and blissed out against his chest, is literally his number one fantasy, has been since he was fifteen.

“Sure, baby,” he whispers, not sure if Steve’s even still awake, but he must be, cause he whispers back,

“Love you.”

Billy closes his eyes, presses his face into Steve’s hair, and thanks every greater being and force in the universe that’s brought him to this exact moment.

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

*-.*-.*-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all they're in LOVE love. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	10. Rest of Our Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve scoffs and shifts his backpack on his shoulders. “I think everyone in the universe would agree that there’s plenty reason to be nervous when you’re meeting your boyfriend’s family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this fluffy end to things!

_Dance with me beneath the stars / Moonlight crashing on our wild hearts / With your hand in mine / everything is fine / We’ve still got the rest of our lives_

_“Rest of Our Lives” – The Light The Heat_

  
  


“There’s literally no reason for you to be nervous,” says Billy, his eyes on the conveyer belt, scanning for their bags.

Steve scoffs and shifts his backpack on his shoulders. “I think everyone in the universe would agree that there’s plenty reason to be nervous when you’re meeting your boyfriend’s family.” He tries to say it with enough humor to hide his genuinely debilitating anxiety about this, but Billy must catch some echo of it across their _mind meld_ , or whatever.

“Hey,” Billy says, turning away from the growing crowd of passengers to smooth his hands over Steve’s shoulders, down his arms. “It’s really gonna be okay. They’re gonna love you, you know that.” He eyes Steve for a beat, worried, before he adds, lowly, “You need your meds?”

Steve shrugs and glances back at the belt instead of meeting Billy’s gaze. Honestly, he probably does, but the idea of trying to find them in the mess of all his shit, tracking down a water bottle and then taking them as subtly as possible in this throng of strangers is more stressful than just standing here until his panic sends him over the edge.

The meds were Billy’s idea—or the counseling was, at least. Steve’s so much better with Billy, but it only took about three weeks into their relationship for something to send him spiraling into one of his _episodes_ , as his mom likes to call them. He doesn’t remember much from that hazy day, just Billy curled around him, whispering a constant stream of stories and nonsense, sweet things. It didn’t even rank in Steve’s top ten worst days, but it rattled Billy, made him quiet. A few days later, star-stuff texted Steve the number of IU’s counseling center.

**star-stuff**

just think about it baby ok?

i love you so much and i just want you to be good all the time

Steve thought about it, but it took Billy waking up beside him one morning, crying and shaking for almost an hour before he calmed down enough to tell Steve what he dreamed of. Steve expected a disaster, some terrible accident, some violent crime. Instead, Billy told him in halting words about Steve’s own sadness, the endless depth of it, the dark indigo swirl of his panic. Steve made a counseling appointment the next day.

Now, he’s got these small, white pills he takes every morning, plus the bonus ones he keeps on hand for the sudden, suffocating anxiety that hits like a fun, little surprise every once in a while. He doesn’t know where the pills are now, though, and besides, he’s probably fine. He can last until they get to Billy’s house at least.

Steve’s zoning out watching the same bags go round and round on the belt when there’s a tap at his shoulder. “Sweetheart,” says Billy softly, and when Steve turns to look at him, he’s got one of the emergency pills in one hand, a water bottle in the other. He nods at the other side of the large security hall.

“There’s a bathroom over there if you want. Just take a breath for a minute, okay? I’ve got the bags.” He places the pill in Steve’s palm and curls Steve’s fingers around it for him, then pulls him close with a hand on his hip. He kisses at Steve’s temple. “Deep breaths, baby,” he murmurs. “It’s all gonna be okay. They’re gonna love you, and I’m here with you, right?”

Steve nods back. It’s become kind of a mantra for them. When Billy wakes crying out in the night, or when Steve has to retreat to his room and hide under the covers—there's someone else there now, someone to say, _I’m here with you,_ and, _you’ll never be alone._

By the time Steve heads to bathroom, takes the pill, and ambles slowly back to Billy, the crowd has dissipated, and their bags are all accounted for. Steve keeps walking right into Billy’s waiting arms and presses his face into Billy’s neck, savoring one of their last moments of peace, just the two of them, before three weeks of Max and Susan and Jinx.

“Thank you,” Steve says against the soft fabric of Billy’s shirt. Billy’s arms tighten around him.

“’s what I'm here for,” he murmurs back. He kisses at the side of Steve’s head, breathing him in for a minute longer, before he pulls back. “All good?” he checks, and Steve gets the feeling that if he said _no_ , that he’s changed his mind and wants to run away, spend their summer in Paris or Rome, Billy wouldn’t bat an eye. He’d just turn them around and head back on a plane to anywhere in the world Steve wanted.

But Steve just smiles and leans in for a quick kiss. “All good,” he says. As scared as he is, there’s really nowhere else he wants to be, just now.

Billy smiles back and laces their fingers together, tugging Steve toward the exit. Steve tries to keep his breath even as they merge with the crowd and spill out into the arrival hall. There’re so many voices and signs and happy families reuniting, he’s not sure how they’ll ever find Susan and Max, but Billy doesn’t seem bothered. He never lets go of Steve’s hand, just leads him off to the right, past all the limo drivers, to some predetermined location.

“They always meet me over here,” Billy explains, just before the crowd parts, and Steve spots a woman with red hair and a wide smile who must be Susan, and a girl with matching red hair and a scowl, who must be Max.

Susan’s grin grows when she spots them, and she tilts up on her heels to wave an arm at them. “Billy!” she calls loudly, “Sweetheart, over here!”

“Last chance to make a run for it,” Billy mutters, but Steve just squeezes his hand and then drops it when they get closer. Just in time, too. Susan hurries forward and wraps her arms around Billy’s shoulders, pulling him down to her level in a tight hug.

“Oh, look at you,” Susan pulls back to squish Billy’s face between her palms. She squints up at him. “Did you get taller?”

“No,” Billy mumbles, the word coming out funny with his lips all squinched together.

Steve grins as Susan pulls Billy into another hug despite his protest. Forgotten for the moment, Steve risks a glance at Max, but she’s already staring at him, a calculating look in her eyes, so he shifts his gaze quickly back to the other two.

“And you must be Steve,” Susan says then, giving him an excuse to avoid Max’s glare. Susan opens her arms like she’s going to gather him up too, before she pauses and says, “Are you alright with hugs?”

Steve spares Billy a quick look, but he just shrugs, his lips quirked up in a smirk. “Um, sure?” Steve says.

Susan smiles and gives him a gentler, shorter version of what Billy just went through. “Good,” she says as she pulls back. “We’re definitely a hugging family.”

“Get off!” Max squawks then, making them both turn to see Billy with Max in a headlock, grinning wide as she smacks at him.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Fine—I missed you, okay? Now, get off!” Billy releases her, and she punches him in the arm, hard, as Susan sighs.

“Can you two behave in front of our guest, please?” she says, with a pointed look in Steve’s direction.

Billy grins and reaches for Steve’s hand again, reeling him in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, there and gone. “Steve’s not a guest,” he says. Max scoffs, but Susan smiles at them, charmed.

“As sweet as that is,” she says, putting an arm around Max and turning to guide them out toward the parking lot. “We’re going to treat him like one, anyway. We want you to have a great time here, honey,” she adds, smiling over her shoulder at Steve. “I’m sure Billy has a lot planned for you, but tonight we’re going to have dinner together at home, okay?” She glances at Billy to let him know too, adding, “I’m making your favorite, sweetheart.”

“Thanks,” Billy mumbles, and Steve gets the intense joy of watching his face turn pink from the attention.

“Yeah, um, thanks, Ms. Mayfield,” Steve adds after a beat, trying to remember all the manners drilled into him from nights and nights of formal dinners when he was younger. “And thank you for letting me stay with you for so long.”

“You can call me Susan, honey. And it’s no problem at all. Billy talks about you so much, I feel like I know you already.”

“Really?” Steve grins as Billy faces gets even redder. “He talks about you guys a lot, too. And Jinx,” Steve adds.

Max rolls her eyes at Billy before turning back around to lope ahead of the rest of them. “Mom wanted to bring him,” she says, making Billy turn to Susan in shock.

“To the airport? _Mom_ ,” says Billy despairing, while Susan just shrugs.

“He’s been going crazy!” she says, “Worse and worse every day this week, like he knew you were coming. This morning, he plopped himself right in front of the door and wouldn’t budge all day. I thought it might be a nice surprise for both of you, but it turns out he hates that carrier more than he misses you,” she shrugs again, not at all ashamed. “I’m sure he’s been screaming his head off at home.”

“He hates the car,” Billy says to Steve, like this is information he needs. Steve just grins back, his anxiety lessening with each passing minute. The meds are probably helping, but there’s also something so welcoming about how _normal_ Billy’s family seems, despite how completely _not_ normal Billy is. It’s just like every sitcom Steve ever watched as a kid, wondering why his own home wasn’t as warm and bright, full of hijinks and laughter.

When the car finally comes into sight, Max makes a beeline for the passenger seat.

“Max, let our guest sit up front,” Susan chides as she gets in herself.

“No, it’s okay,” Steve’s quick to add, “I don’t mind, I can sit in the back with Billy.”

Billy pushes Steve’s help away as he loads their bags into the trunk, but soon they’re all in their seats, belted up, and Susan pulls the car out onto the road. They make idle small talk for a while, Susan asking after their flight, their exams, Steve’s other plans for the summer. As the scenery around them turns more residential, Susan pauses noticeably before saying,

“So, Steve, the sofa in the living room pulls out. I’ve put some fresh sheets on it, and you’re welcome to stay there. But,” she adds, glancing at the mirror to get a look at Steve and Billy in the backseat, “I also know you boys are very responsible young adults—”

“Oh my god,” Billy mutters.

“—and if you’d rather stay upstairs with Billy, that’s fine with me. I just ask that you two refrain from any _funny business_ while Max and I are home.”

“ _Mom!_ ” Billy groans, burying his face in his hands, his ears turning bright red.

“Gross, Mom,” Max adds, her gaze firmed fixed out the window.

“Well,” says Susan, unfazed, “I was young once, too. I know how it goes. How do you think I got you?” she adds to Max, who spares her a disgusted look before staring back out the window.

“I don’t think they’re gonna have that problem,” she mutters.

“We don’t make assumptions,” Susan scolds lightly before glancing at them in the mirror again. “You boys _are_ being safe, aren’t you?”

“ _Yes_ , god, can we please talk about something else, now?” Billy says, his words muffled by his hands still pressed to his pink face. Steve finds he’s actually more amused than mortified by the entire exchange, but it’s probably just because it’s not _his_ mom. He reaches to tug at Billy’s hand until he finally relents and lets Steve laces their fingers together. He squeezes once, twice, before letting their hands rest on the middle seat between them and saying to Susan,

“Thank you, really, that’s very—um, nice of you. I’ll stay with Billy, if that’s okay. And, of course, we won’t—we’ll be _very_ _respectful_.”

Susan’s eyes are warm when he meets them in the rearview mirror. “I’m sure you will,” she says kindly.

Thankfully, they pull into Billy’s driveway not long after that. Billy’s out the car before it even comes to a full stop. By the time Steve’s gathered his backpack and made it to the front stoop, all their bags are out already, too, and Susan’s pressing the key into the lock, chastising Billy all the while about seatbelts and safety.

Steve only gets a quick look at the outside of the house and the tiny, mostly cobbled yard, before the door opens and they all crowd into the small front hall. Steve’s pulling the door shut behind him when a loud meow startles him enough to jump, just a little.

“Hey, dude!” Billy says, joy clear in his voice as he leans down to scoop up the largest cat Steve’s ever seen. Steve watches as Jinx presses closer and closer into Billy’s chest, trying to wind around his shoulders and rub his face into Billy’s at the same time. His purr is loud enough for Steve to hear even a few feet away.

“Missed you, too, J,” Billy murmurs, burying his face in Jinx’s fur. The sight of them together sends a surprising wave of affection through Steve. It’s just nice, to see Billy with someone he loves so much, has missed _so much_. Sometimes, Steve catches Billy rubbing at his chest absently, his gaze distant, and whenever Steve asks about it, he only gets vague, mumbled answers about Jinx being so far away.

Their reunion goes on for a few moments longer before Billy turns Jinx around in his arms and says, “Look who’s here, dude.” Steve can’t help but grin at Jinx’s wide, green stare. He holds a careful hand out for him to sniff and says softly,

“Hey, Jinx.”

Jinx’s nose twitches, and he blinks up at Steve a few times. Then it’s like a switch flips, and he chirps urgently, trying to wiggle out of Billy’s grip, pawing in Steve’s direction.

“Calm down, god. You want to hold him?” Billy asks Steve, mostly failing to keep Jinx contained to his arms.

“Sure,” Steve grins, and within seconds he’s got twenty pounds of squirming, black fur to contend with. It’s been a while since he held an animal of any kind, and Jinx doesn’t make it easy. He's just as affectionate as he was with Billy, if not more so, kneading at Steve’s shirt and pressing his face into Steve’s. His purr is steady and deep. It settles some old ache in Steve’s chest, like he was missing Jinx, too, and he just didn’t know it.

When Jinx starts to lick at Steve’s ear, Billy finally tugs him away, pulling Jinx’s claws from Steve’s clothes and dropping him unceremoniously on the floor. “That’s enough, man. Give him a break,” he huffs, and if Steve didn’t know better, he’d think Billy was jealous, though of him or Jinx, he’s not sure.

“Looks like you got some competition,” Max says smugly from the kitchen doorway. Billy flips her off but is quick to hide it when Susan reappears. She sends Billy a warning look, clearly not fooled.

“Billy, why don’t you bring those bags upstairs and give Steve the tour. Dinner should be ready in about an hour. And, Max, my love, you get to be my sous-chef,” she adds patting both hands on Max’s shoulders.

Max turns to look at her mom, already arguing, “Why do I have to—”

“Because,” says Susan, unbothered, steering Max into the kitchen. “Your mother is asking you to. Now, let’s get the recipe out...”

Steve grabs his suitcase and follows Billy up the narrow staircase. Billy stops at the end of the short hall, nudging a door open with his shoulder, just above a faded sign written in crude marker: **_NO GIRLS ALLOWED – THAT MEANS YOU, MAXINE!!! _**

“So, this is where the magic happens,” Billy says with smirk, setting his bag down by the closet. Steve sets his down beside it before he turns to take in the room. 

It’s a lot like Billy’s room back at IU, but— _more._ More posters and fairy lights and crystals and plants. Every inch of space seems to hold some new, mysterious thing to look at. Steve spots an actual crystal ball tucked away on Billy’s desk, next to what he hopes is a _plastic_ skull of some small mammal. Steve turns slowly, taking everything in, mesmerized, always, by Billy’s strange, magical world. Sometimes, Steve wonders if Billy fell out of the pages of a fairytale, and got caught in Steve’s boring universe, like Amy Adams in that _Enchanted_ movie.

Billy flicks on the lights then, and even though it wasn’t quite dark before—the sun still bright in the summer sky—it makes Steve notice the walls themselves. He walks to the nearest one, pressing his finger lightly to the paint before turning to look at Billy.

“Is this—?” Steve asks, not remembering the name but knowing, somehow, that Billy will.

“Sweet honeydew,” Billy murmurs, scratching at his arm nervously. He gets like this, still, when another secret comes out, some way he changed his life for Steve before they ever met.

Steve follows the pull of gravity that shifted for him at some point, from the center of the Earth to the center of Billy’s chest. He hooks his arms over Billy’s shoulders and revels in the easy way Billy’s hands settle on his hips, an instinct by now.

“When did you do that?” Steve asks softly, smiling at Billy’s embarrassed shrug.

“That summer,” he mumbles shyly. “It took me forever.”

“I bet,” says Steve, enjoying the image of Billy at thirteen, struggling to reach the high corners of his walls. “You didn’t know I’d see it?” Steve prods, still suspicious of Billy’s claim that he never saw them like this, together and in love. He just finds it hard to believe—all the things Billy did just on the _off-chance_ that Steve would love him back.

Billy shakes his head, ghosting his lips over Steve’s cheek. “I hoped,” he breathes, his favorite answer.

Steve hums and buries his smile in Billy’s shoulder, knowing Billy will feel how pleased the thought makes him—Billy painting his room Steve’s favorite color, just in case.

“I love it,” Steve murmurs, pulling back to add, “All of it. It’s amazing.”

Billy grins, nearly glowing with the success of all his years-old work. His smile softens as he searches Steve’s eyes, like he’s looking for some sign of his earlier anxiety. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” says Steve honestly. He really shouldn’t have worried. Billy’s family is great, just how he always pictured.

“Yeah? How okay?” Billy presses the words into the sensitive skin just below Steve’s jaw, and even though he knows he shouldn’t, Steve lets him, lets Billy lick into his mouth and shuffle them backward toward the bed.

“Billy,” Steve murmurs as Billy kisses down his neck.

“Hmm?”

It’s a hazy minute or two before Steve can remember why he was talking in the first place, and then he tries again. “ _Billy_ ,” he says, firmer, pushing at Billy’s chest till he finally relents. “I _just_ promised your mom we wouldn’t.”

Billy quirks an eyebrow in mock surprise. “You were serious?”

Steve rolls eyes and slips off the bed that they somehow ended up on, standing and reaching to help Billy up too. “Come on,” he says. “Give me this tour I’ve heard so much about.”

Billy glances around and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve seen the only room that matters,” he adds with a smirk.

Steve rolls his eyes again, tugging at Billy’s hand to lead him back out into the hall. When he pulls Billy’s door open, though, the way is blocked by a large, black blob that soon takes shape again as Jinx springs up, staring at Billy with wide eyes. He meows in a way Steve somehow knows means he’s annoyed, and vaguely hurt. Billy scoffs but crouches to let Jinx press his face into Billy’s cheek.

“Don’t be a baby,” Billy mutters. “I’m here for the rest of the summer, okay?”

Jinx just licks at Billy’s nose, making him laugh, before Billy stands and grabs Steve’s hand again. He points in quick succession at the other doors that open onto the small landing. “Max’s room. Susan's room. Linen closet. Our bathroom’s here.” He opens a door just to the left of his, which reveals a bathroom, overcrowded with bottles, luffas, and towels. “You can use all my shampoo and stuff. Maxine labels all her shit like a freak, so I guess you’ll know which stuff is mine.”

Billy’s quick to pull Steve down the stairs, Jinx hot on their heels. The front hall is only slightly bigger than the upstairs landing, just a small square of space with a few doors. Billy points these out with the same rushed indifference. “Hall closet, other bathroom, kitchen’s through there.” He leads Steve through an open archway into the largest room yet. “This is the den,” he offers, “We mostly hang out in here.”

It’s probably three times smaller than Steve’s own living room, but there’s an undeniable hominess that Steve’s never really known. A worn, comfy-looking couch faces a TV surrounded by bookshelves, crowded with DVDs, schoolbooks, and frame after frame of family photos.

Steve pulls Billy with him to get a closer look, smiling at the snapshots of Max and Billy over the years—mostly candid moments of laughter. Steve picks up one photo, the oldest of the bunch. Max is maybe five, dressed in a pink bunny costume, her painted whiskers running with tears, her red face caught in a miserable sob. Beside her, Billy is a tiny Spiderman, staring at the camera with defiant blankness, as if someone had the audacity to tell him to smile.

Billy snorts as he looks over Steve’s shoulder. “Our first Halloween,” he explains. “Max was scared of all the witches.” At Steve’s surprised look, he smirks. “I know, right? Good thing she got over it.”

Steve replaces the photo carefully, feeling a strange kind of loneliness, wishing he’d somehow been there then, to poke at Billy and make him smile for real. That year, he’d been Batman for Halloween, and he can picture it so clearly, him and Billy together, their two chocolate-smeared faces, their two little hands clasped as they run from house to house. In another universe, maybe.

In this one, Billy tugs at Steve’s hand again, bored of the den already. He leads them through the foyer and down a narrow hallway, commenting, “That’s Susan’s office, that’s the laundry room. And _this_ ,” he adds with gravity, pushing open the backdoor. “This is the only other place that matters.”

The door opens out into a fenced yard, bordered on both sides by the neighbors’ yards and bracketed by what must be an ally. It’s smaller by far than Steve’s sprawling acres at home, but the size barely registers. What hits Steve first is the smell, heady and full, like a hundred flowers blooming at once—which might be a low estimate.

Every bit of the high, wooden fence is covered in green ivy, and running along both sides are raised planter boxes crowded with life. On first glance, Steve spots tomatoes and cucumbers, basil and sage, daisies and lavender—and that’s just what he can recognize. By the far fence bordering the street, there’s an overgrown rose bush and a single, ancient-looking tree that towers over everything else, an old fashion rope swing hanging from a branch, swaying in the late afternoon breeze. It’s like every garden Steve ever read about as a kid, the kind he thought only existed in storybooks.

He turns to Billy, speechless, but Billy’s already tutting at something and pulling Steve after him as he turns to one of the nearby planters.

“Susan keeps an eye on them when I’m at school,” Billy explains absently as he runs a delicate finger over some herb. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do.” He hums a little frustrated sound as he plucks some dead parts away. “Oh, babe,” he mumbles.

As he checks on other plants, he starts to get that same tensely focused glow he gets when he flips through tarot cards or spends hours slumped over old star charts. Steve knew Billy had plants in his room at IU, but he never knew Billy’s green thumb extended to something like _this_. He’s sort of realizing how much Billy downplays the magical elements of his life, even now.

“You never told me...” Steve starts but trails off as he spots Jinx’s tail flicking high out of a bush in the back of the yard. He scampers out suddenly, surprisingly quick for his size, and darts up the side of the planter, somehow keeping to the narrow, wooden border as he makes his way over to Billy. He drops something from his mouth near Billy’s hand, but instead of scolding Jinx for eating his plants, Billy just scratches his ear and says,

“Thanks, J. Let’s see.” He pinches the proffered flower petal between his fingers until in breaks open, releasing some kind of sap. “Few more days, I think,” he mutters. It’s only when he wipes his hand off on his jeans and catches sight of Steve at his side that Billy even seems to remember Steve’s there.

“Sorry,” Billy says, flushing a little, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I, uh. Forgot how much work this always is when I first get back. I’m gonna have to spend a few hours out here tomorrow, and maybe the next day?” He hurries to add, “But we’ll still have plenty of time to see the city and everything.”

Steve smiles, still dumbstruck by all of this but charmed, always, at Billy’s rare moments of shyness, the ones only Steve gets to see. “Baby,” says Steve, coming close again to rest his hands on Billy’s chest. “I could watch you work out here for hours.” Billy pinks a little more at that and tugs Steve in to press a quick kiss to his smile.

They only pull away at the sound of someone clearing their throat. Steve turns to see Max in the doorway, her arms crossed, unamused. “Mom needs you to open a jar,” she says to Billy, who rolls his eyes.

“The work never ends around here,” he sighs to Steve. He squeezes at Steve’s arm, there and gone, adding, “Be back in a sec,” before he pushes past Max and disappears into the house. Steve waits for Max to follow after him, but she never does, just stands there and stares at Steve for a long, _long_ moment.

“So, you know about Billy,” she says, not really a question. “About his dreams and everything.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, a little halting. He’s got more than a few inches on Max, and probably a lot more pounds, but there’s something about the dark, untrusting look in her eyes that gives him pause.

“You know he loves you, like, a crazy amount?” she goes on, irritated, as if it’s Steve’s fault. “Like, you could break his heart and he’d probably still love you.”

“Yeah, I—I love him, too. A crazy amount,” Steve manages. “And I'm not really planning on—breaking his heart.”

“Good,” says Max, firmly. “Cause I was on JV softball this year, you know. My mom bought me a bat and everything,” she nods at something behind Steve, and he turns to spot a Louisville Slugger leaning up against the house a few feet away. “So, if you hurt my brother, I’m gonna break your legs. Got it?”

“Yup,” Steve says quickly. “Yup, yeah. I got it.”

“Good,” Max says again, and she turns to head back into the house with a flourish, but the dramatic effect is ruined by Billy coming back at the same time. The two of them shuffle awkwardly around in the doorway for a second until Billy huffs and yanks Max past him, then steps out himself.

“What’d she say?” Billy asks as he makes his way over to Steve again. “She tell you slander and lies about me?”

“Uh, no,” Steve draws out, letting Billy pull him close. “She wanted me to know that if I break your heart, she’s gonna break my legs with a baseball bat.”

“Huh,” says Billy, seemingly stumped for a moment before he shrugs and smirks. “Well, don’t worry, baby. Jinx’ll protect you.”

“Oh, I see, but not you, huh?”

“Nah. I know better than to get in the way of Max with a bat. She was, like, leadoff batter this semester, man.”

“Wow, okay. Good to know where your priorities are.”

“Hey, I love you, dude, but I prefer my bones intact.”

“I’ll show you a bone intact,” Steve growls nonsensically, grabbing at Billy till he laughs and runs towards the other end of the yard to escape. They chase each other around for a few minutes until Steve gets tired and plops down on the tree swing, swaying it back and forth a little. Billy comes to stand between his legs, so Steve takes a moment to stare up at him, just looking at his pretty smile, his sun-freckled cheeks.

“I always wanted one of these,” Steve murmurs after a while, looking up at the ropes of the swing that loop securely around a large, thick branch. “Did you know that, too?”

Billy shakes his head. “Wish I could take the credit, but this one came with the house.”

Steve hums and switches his gaze back to Billy, who’s looking at him a warm kind a way. “Must be fate, then,” Steve says softly, making Billy smile.

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning down to catch Steve’s lips with his. “Must be.”

After a minute, Steve pulls away, too aware of the open windows looking out onto the yard. “Give me a push,” he demands, and Billy only puts up a token protest before he obeys, sending Steve swinging dangerously high in no time.

They take turns for a while, until Billy gets bored and pulls Steve to stop again, coming to stand in front of him. “So,” he says, tugging at the swing ropes absently to send Steve swaying side to side. “What do you think of SF so far?”

Steve hooks his fingers in Billy’s t-shit, just for the feel of him. “I love it,” he says. “I like your family.” He really does. Even Max, her scary protective streak only making him like her more.

Billy softens, his eyes turning impossibly blue to match the summer sky. “They’re your family too,” he murmurs, leaning so their foreheads are touching. “You’ve got me forever, you know. That means you’ve got them forever, too.”

Steve has to close his eyes to deal with the feeling that hits him then, impossible to describe, except that’s it’s too big to fit inside him, so safe and warm and bright. When he can look at Billy again, it doesn’t feel like a choice to kiss him, just inevitable—an inexorable wish of the universe.

“Boys!” Susan calls sometime later. “Dinner’s ready!”

Billy pulls back with sigh, smirking softly as he fixes Steve’s ruffled hair. “Ready?” he asks, holding his hands out to help Steve up from the swing.

“Yeah,” Steve says, letting Billy pull him up and then closer, into his waiting arms. “I’m ready.” Billy kisses him once more, for luck, and then they turn together and head into the house.

Above them, it’s not yet dusk, the sky still blue and pink and orange. But even so, an early star is out, and it seems to burn, just then, brighter and brighter, until it falls, leaving behind bits of dust and light, a scattered trail of star stuff.

*-.*-.*-.

We were in the gold room where everyone / finally gets what they want, so I said _What do you / want, sweetheart?_ and you said _Kiss me._

– Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain

*-.*-.*-.

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's followed along and everyone who's commented. I'm terrible at replying but I read every comment and each one is like a little gift that I read over and over. I hope you enjoyed this fic even half as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> I'm going to focus on the songbird sequel for a while (it's been slow going but hopefully it will be up soonish!), but I think I'll post more in this universe at some point, likely a prequel that explains more of Billy's powers and how he came to live with Susan and Max, etc. Maybe even a sequel. I'll make a series for this fic in case anyone wants to subscribe only to that.
> 
> Let me know what you think of the end, and come find me on tumblr! 
> 
> Star Stuff (Original Soundtrack, Extended Edition)
> 
> “Dreams” – The Cranberries  
> “comethru” – Jeremy Zucker  
> “Break My Heart Right” – James Bay  
> “To Be Known” – Carsie Blanton  
> “BITCH (takes one to know one)” – Lennon Stella  
> “Sunflower, Vol. 6” – Harry Styles  
> “Do You Want Me” – Skyline Motel  
> “New Kind of Love” – Skylar Grey  
> “Rest of Our Lives” – The Light the Heat 
> 
> (Bonus Tracks)  
> “Make It To Me” – Sam Smith  
> “Chicken” – Carsie Blanton  
> “Adore You” – Harry Styles  
> “into the wild” – Lewis Watson  
> “500 Days of Summer” – Grady  
> “Cool With Being Crazy” – Willow City

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! you can find me [on tumblr](https://jaybugwrites.tumblr.com)


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